Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Barty never cared much about making friends. Or, rather, he knew it was no bother. He had always been a lonely child. Before you get your tissues out, please have some dignity. This doesn’t constitute a tragedy or anything. It just is, and has always been so. In the same way that some people are born in July and some in November. He never felt that he was missing out on something. For a start, everyone tended to annoy him anyway, and it was even worse with people his age. Plus, he was constantly moving out because of his father’s job. The latter, much like himself, wasn't keen on forming deeper connections either. He had a very utilitarianist perception of the world. Maximize the good, minimize the bad. If someone is of value to you, get close to them. Leave when they aren’t anymore, or when you find someone more useful. Simple as that. Barty hated how this was passed down on to him, but he didn’t know better. He had been raised by the man his entire life. His mom was around…till she wasn’t. That’s a whole other story, one that he does not get into unless he is forced to do so. Which is often nowadays. Ever since his allegedly stone-cold of a father decided to remarry, actually. He didn’t know what to make of that union. She was an okay woman, quite pretty with dark hair she wore short, ten years younger than Sir Crouch. She was alright, agreeable at least. Barty hadn’t yet been able to figure out her precise value to his father. Maybe a simple quarter life crisis, but there had to be more to it.

Ever since she appeared in the picture, Barty has been forced to do many things. His father was always strict with him, but as long as his grades were okay, he was mostly free to go on about his day. Now, Ms. Juliana Crouch was in charge. They moved not only into a new house but in a whole new country. The Crouch left the windy streets of Chicago for the rainy shit-show that was Britain. Ms. Crouch is a socialite, which means that Barty didn’t even have a minute to himself after unpacking before the house became a warzone, filled from top to bottom with pretentious twats in overcomplicated hairdos. Barty spent the summer shaking hands and wanting to kill himself. Under Ms. Crouch reign, Barty was on his father’s radar more than ever. In this new scenery, he had to present as the perfect son more than ever before. In Ms. Crouch world, the one Barty had been dragged into, people watched. People talked. Being his usual, sulky, quiet self would not do. He had to be charming, engaging. These attitudes were reinforced into him the entire summer and he didn’t catch a break. But that was only the warming up. Now, he had to put the act into actual practice, because now, school was about to start.

Bam bam bam. The curtains open. A young man enters.

“Right. Here goes nothing, I guess.”

Chapter Text

The first time his father hit him, Barty was six. There were times where he wishes he had done it harder, so that he could have ended in some sort of coma and forget everything. He loathed how clearly he could remember his childhood. All of it, down to the most ridiculous details. Barty was six and had refused to eat his food. He hadn’t even done it out of defiance, he just couldn’t eat it. It was the texture. This happened often. His brain would convince him out of nowhere that a specific food looked weird and the simple thought of trying it would make him puke. Which he did, on that specific day. His father had slapped him, then grabbed by the collar and stuck his face in the plate, like he was force-feeding a horse.

His mother had watched the entire scene, unbothered. This wasn’t personal. By that time, the meds had rendered her so numb she couldn’t react to anything anymore. She roamed the house like a spirit trapped in the material world. Funnily enough, Barty was more afraid of her than he was of his father. His father, for all of his violent behaviors, was predictable. Barty grew accustomed to his wrath. He knew exactly when the punch would come. There was a certain contentment to this. ‘Knowledge is bliss’ and all of that. Now, his mother, she was the real threat. She looked absent, most of the time. She remained silent, her gaze fixed on a nothingness. However, sometimes, she had her other moments. At first, Barty called them the good days. Because they made him happy. At first. He would wake up to the sound of his mother singing, baking in the kitchen or cleaning the entire house. She looked so excited, which made Barty really happy. It took him a while to understand that these times were nothing to be happy about.

One day, Barty’s mother shook him awake. The sun was barely showing through his blinds. It was around five in the morning and his mum had the biggest smile on her face.
“Mommy?” He asked, blinking slowly.
“Darling, come on! We have to go!”
“Where?”
“The amusement park! Did you forget? Oh, silly boy!”

Barty did in fact not remember any talk about going to the amusement park. But he didn’t think more of it. Could you blame him? He was a child, and this announcement was like Christmas to him. He got out of bed, buzzing with excitement, but before he had a chance to change out of his pajamas, his mum caught his wrist and started to drag him out of the house.

“We don’t have time for this. Come on, come on!”

So there he was, his bed clothes still on, while his mom was speed driving on the highway, speaking incessantly.

“This is going to be so much fun! You’re happy, right? What ride do you want to go on first? We’ll get ice cream afterwards. Or right away. You’d like that, honey? Ice cream for breakfast? I’ll get chocolate. Is vanilla still your favorite? Oh, this is so fun. I’m having so much fun already. Don’t you, Barty?”
“Mommy I”
“We’ll get there early. I don’t like to wait. Plenty of empty spots for us! The sun is already out. It’s going to be hot today. Did you bring a cap, Barty darling?”
“No bu”
“We’ll get one. Oh, there is a store at the next exit. We’ll stop there quickly.”
“Mommy you don’t need”
“YOU NEED A CAP, BARTY!” She suddenly screamed. A silence fell in the car. Barty gulped, staring at his feet. He didn’t want her angry.
“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond. She took the exit, then parked in front of a Walmart. She didn’t wait for him to get out, and locked the doors before walking away. It was alright, Barty reassured himself. She’ll be back in no time. It was going to be a great day. He smiled, then put his head against the window, waiting to see her get out of the store.

Two hours later, Barty was still waiting. It was starting to get really warm in the car. He adjusted in his seat, trying to find some shade.
Another hour in. The heat was getting to him. He was thirsty. He looked outside, but still no sign of his mom. That’s when he started to panic. What if she never came back? What if he was forever stuck in the car? He tried the door. Still locked, obviously. This didn’t stop him from desperately pushing against it. After a while, he took on banging against the window. With his fist, first, then by kicking it with his feet.

“MOMMY! MOMMY! IT’S HOT!” He kept kicking and kicking, now crying profusely. “Mommy, I want to get out! Please!”

20 minutes later, Barty was out of the car, still crying, but now in the arms of a lady he didn’t know. She had heard him scream and had called for help. A man came and, after a couple of useless tries, broke the front window to open the door for him. He was still there, along with a couple of other strangers. A policeman was talking to him.

“Now, now. You’re safe boy. Where is your mommy?”g
“It’s my fault.” He sniffed. “I forgot the cap.”
“It’s alright. When did your mommy leave?”
"I don't-I don't know."

When his mother finally came back, she did so empty handed, and she started to scream as soon as she saw him.

“What did you do? What did you do Barty?”
“M’am, please,” the policeman asked, “stay calm.”
“Shut up, I’m not talking to you! BARTY!”
“She’s oviously unwell, officer. She left him there for hours.” One lady intervened.

Without any warning, she surged at the woman, a man blocking her in extremis. She started to fight him to get out of his hold. Barty was looking at her, frightened. When he met her gaze, he saw nothing but fury.

“Look what you did, you little shit! You little piece of shit!”

That day, Barty never went to the amusement park. In fact, after that day, he would never go with his mother anywhere ever again. That day, she was committed into a mental hospital. That day, Barty learned that those were not her good days. They were manic episodes. His mother was bipolar and that day, no, that week, she hadn’t taken any of her medicine for it.

The last time his father hit him, Barty was fifteen and about to bury his mother. The people at the hospital said it was an accident. His father told him it was an accident. Barty knew better. The fight had started in the car. His father was complaining about her, about his own wife, said she was weak, that there was nothing he hated more than weakness. She had always been too emotional. Hysterical.
Barty had told him it was his fault. His father had jumped on the brakes. He had gotten out of the vehicle, forced Barty out before slapping the shit out of him. Then, when Barty started to cry, he slapped him a second time.

“I don’t want any of this, Bartemius. From today onwards, I don’t want to see any fucking tears. You hear me? None. None of that emotional bullshit, none of that hysterical attitude. Unless you want to end up like that, like her. Do you want that, son?”
“No.”
“No, who?”
“No, Sir."
“Right. Now get back inside, and man up, for Christ’s sake. Stop being such a pussy.”

And Barty did. He stopped crying. He didn't shed a single tear during the funeral. Not the following day, not the one after. He hasn't cried since. Not ever. He remains impassive. He walks his anger silently, on a metal leash. The good thing about it was that his father got more and more of his back. Barty played the part of the good son, never talking back, keeping his answers short, with the bare minimum of information. He began to live like an automaton, a video game character. He took care of his basic needs, ate a little and sometimes slept. He went to school and got good marks. He was intelligent and it wasn't as if he had much to do once the last bell rang. He didn't have any friends. He had completely shut himself off from the world. At first, people tried to enter his sphere, to break through his ramparts. You know, the whole "I can change him, I can fix him" game. But seeing the total lack of progress and effort on his part, people stopped. Gradually. He was cold, aggressive, dry. Except when he was forced to be friendly, at parties organized by his father, and now his mother-in-law. But the rest of the time, he was alone. He didn't give a damn. He'd stopped giving a damn years ago. He was perfectly content in his room. And above all, with his books. He felt safe there. After all, his entire life was ruined when he decided to leave a room, right? 

---

Summer lasted for what felt like a snapshot. Before he knew it, Barty was in his room, fan blowing in his face, awaiting the dreaded fate of going back to school. That day, he actually got out of the house. It was merely a pretense, an excuse to avoid his life. Up until twelve, Barty had been able to escape both his father and especially stepmom’s attention, but the bliss was over. He knew it as soon as he heard it: the specific, disgustingly honeyed tone calling out his name.

“Bartemius! Would you come down, please?”

Followed by the, no less specific, scolding voice:

“We don’t have all day, son.”

With reluctance, he jumped out of bed but still took his time with the stairs, taking them in slow and elongated strides. By now, he was able to pinpoint exactly the room from which people were talking, which is how he knew that his father and stepmother were in the kitchen.

“What is it?”

Without looking up from his paper, his dad pointed at the chair in front of him. Barty sat down expectantly, noticing his stepmom’s stance. One of her hands was resting on her hip, while the other drew circles on her neck. His dad was the first to talk, though he still kept his eyes down.

“Did you look at your schedule yet?”
“I did, sir.”
“I have talked to Walburga about it,” Juliana Crouch intervened, still drawing the same circles, “they give that schedule to everyone.”

Do they? This is so weird. It’s almost as if everyone went to the same school.

“Right, so…”
“Well, you’ll obviously need to add classes to it. Oh, and extracurriculars too!” she said, “This is why it looked so light. I was surprised, at first. But Walburga assured me that it was just the basic outline.”

Walburga. Barty had heard that witchass of a name all summer. The Black were the richest family out here, followed closely by Barty’s. They had two sons, an older one and one his age. ‘What a shame that they were travelling all summer, what a shame he couldn’t meet them, really. Fortunately, they’ll be at the same school. They will get along so well.’ Barty had already decided that he will not be making any efforts to connect with them. Why bother? They’ll be plenty of annoying parties where he’ll be forced to. As far as he was concerned, school was nothing more than going to class.

“I am aware of this,” Barty said, “I had figured I’d wait to see what options there are tomorrow,” he could tell that this answer wouldn’t suffice, so he added, “but I’ll take AP English, for sur-”
“And a sport.” his father finally looked up. “I don’t want you to waste your time with their ridiculous artistic extracurriculars.”
“There is an excellent football team,” his stepmom looked so excited “a lot of the good kids play.”

The good kids. The one with money and status. The one whose path Barty had to mimic.

“Good. Football, then.” His father went back to his paper.
“Is that all, sir?” He was eager to go back to his room.
“Actually,” she clasped her hand, “would you come with me to have tea with…”
“I would have loved to,” he didn’t take the chance to let her finish, “but I have been meaning to go into town to buy stationery for school. I am still missing some things. If you’ll excuse me, now, I have to get going.”

Pretense. Barty was good at this. He had to, for his own sanity. Which is how he ended up in this shop, mindlessly looking at items. He had no intention of buying anything from here. He was quite anal about his stationary. He had been using the exact same brand of fountain pens for years and he could not write with anything else. He was there to stall for time. He’ll stay long enough to make sure to not get drafted into whatever fancy tea rendez-vous her stepmother had planned.

To be honest, he didn’t mind the town in itself. It was alright. Some areas were very posh, of course, but generally it wasn’t anything like that. You’d find all sorts of regular folks. Barty liked that: to not be completely shut off from the real world. Which is also why he had been so relieved to see that he would be going to a regular school, and not some kind of private institution. He had had his fair share of experiences with places like that. Nothing about them was slightly romantic or dramatic, in a Dead Poets Society type of beat. At least then, he would have appreciated it. But the truth is, people at those schools were dumber than everywhere else. They didn’t drink red wine and recite poetry in the dark, nor did they whisper secrets in Ancient Greek and dirty talk in Latin. Their main and only thing was comparison. Who had the most money? The largest boat? The biggest dick? They were written by people at Cartoon Network, not Donna Tartt.

So yeah. A regular, normal, basic high school was nice. Though they wouldn’t call it high school here, but well. Their system didn’t make any sense to him anyway. What the fuck does GCSE mean? You invented English, how about speaking in that language? Christ.

With a scoff, Barty looked at his watch. It was still a bit risky to go back just yet, but he was getting bored at the sight of highlighters and journals.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” he gave a slight smile to the lady at the counter, “is there a coffee shop nearby?”

Barty was redirected to a place called The Holy Bean. A stupid name for an, unfortunately, very endearing place. He couldn’t even pretend to be bitter about it. With its white and red brick walls, wooden counter, tables and chairs, reading area with little cushions and waiters wearing Gavroche caps, it was hard not to fall under the place’s spell. It just felt so homey. Not that Barty would know anything about that feeling, but he imagined it to resemble something like this.

“Ey up! Welcome to The Holy Bean. My name’s Marlene. May I take your order?”

Barty was startled by the sudden voice. He was still about five feet from the counter. Don’t people usually wait for you to approach them? Yet there he was, facing a dyed blonde with a nose piercing and a smile way too big for such circumstances.

“Right. Well, I haven’t really had a chance to look at…”
“No problem! Are you more of a sugar of bitter type of bloke?”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“My guess is more on the bitter side. We have a medium roast that makes for a mean espresso.”
“Oi, Marls,” a guy suddenly appeared from the backdoor, “Slow down, you’re giving him a heart attack”
“Alright, alright,” she scoffed, “I’ll leave you to it then, Remus.”

Just like that, she disappeared through the same door that the guy apparently came in.

“Let’s start again. Hi, my name’s Remus. What can I get for ya today?”

“Just…a black coffee, please. Whatever roast she was talking about.”

The guy snorted, before shaking his head. Barty felt like this was a good trade. He had a quieter energy than the girl. Even his appearance screamed peacefulness: soft brown eyes and a mop of equally brown curls which stood on his head as if it was gently placed there by some kind of Renaissance sculptor. The boy was like poster child barista; the kind you’d find in a fucking indie movie. Some Wes Andersonian shit.

“Cheers. Have a sit, I’ll be with ya in a minute.”

Barty opted for the back, near the reading area. There was a sign that said “take one, leave one” with a smile drawn next to it. He could never imagine himself separating from his books, even if they were used or if he had hated them. They were his books still.

“Find something interesting?”

Jesus. Is this a thing here? Do people just magically apparate out of nowhere? Barty looked at the guy before slowly taking his coffee in his hands, with a shrug.

“No. Just curious about,” he gestured towards the books, “the system. Does it work?”
“You mean do people really replace the books? Or if they actually take them?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well, yeah. The selection is usually pretty different from one week to the other.”

A silence fell. Barty was about to sip his coffee, before he realized that the guy was still standing there. With a frown, he froze, then gave him a look that read 'can you fucking leave now.' This seemed to bring the barista back to earth, because he quickly turned on his heels and finally regained his place behind the counter. Barty could feel both his and the girl’s eyes on him. They appeared to be around his age. He wondered if he’d see them both at school tomorrow. He’s not sure he’d recognize them. He didn’t really take notice of their appearance. Not enough, anyway. Certainly not as much as they did, as they are. He couldn’t figure out why they were staring exactly. Maybe everyone knew each other here already, maybe he just looked aggressively foreign, maybe he was imagining it, maybe, maybe, maybe. At least, the coffee was good, really good even. Courtesy of the medium roast bullshit thingy. Other people's perception of him could fuck right off. He had coffee and a wide range of books to explore. Usually, you could tell a lot about someone by their bookshelves. In that case, this was sort of the town’s bookshelves. What kind of creatures inhabited it?

Romance books. Loads of them. Fitting. They were probably middle-aged women picks, though some of them looked more targeted towards teenagers. What else? Thrillers, detective novels, cooking books, two copies of The Diary of a Young Girl, a couple of beaten-up classics and…Oh well. Would you look at this: someone must have gone through a phase recently, because there were two anthologies of Russian poetry. Huh. Barty picked them up to open at random. Some verses were underlined. They were annotations, but barely readable, some of them in…French? Right. He looked at the first page, in search of a name. Nothing, except for this:

R.A.B.

Didn’t ring any bell. Whoever that R.A.B dude was, he was probably insufferable, that’s for sure. Fucking Russian poetry annotated in French? Yeah, right. Probably a hundred years old with a pet raven too.Barty wondered why they had gotten rid of these books. They were in absolute pristine condition. Shit, it looked like fancy editions, actually. He skimmed through them for a while. It never took any effort for him to lose himself in literature, mainly cause the world at large seems ridiculous to the ones in books. Ridiculous, and mostly disappointing. People are nothing more than unfinished drawings from up-close; dirty handprints all over their faces. Now, literary characters, they, were polished and perfected, forever printed on the page: even if they did deceive you, they could only do it once. In real life, humans will always be able to outdo themselves in their foolishness. This was borderline impressive, sometimes.

Barty’s trip back to the world of disappointments was triggered by a bellowing voice with such deep English accents that he wasn't entirely sure that a wild animal hadn't just entered the place.

“Remus ya tosser! Answer yer fookin texts!”

 Yeah, that was his cue. See, generally, when someone spoke louder than the level required to be heard by another human being in public, Barty left. Especially if said someone was followed by two other guys. Plus, he had killed enough time to risk going home safely. He gulped down the rest of his drink, got up, then, after a bit of an internal debate, took one of the two anthology and exited the coffee shop.

---

“Well, hello to you too, Pete.”

“Don’t start with your sweet barista tone. I’m not having it. We’ve had to deal with an attention depraved Sirius for the past two hours.”

“Sorry for missing my best friends! An entire summer!” whined Sirius, “Moony, surely you’ve missed me like crazy right?”

“Wait, you were gone?” The latter responded with a devious grin.

“Well, I’ll just go and drown myself since no one here appreciates me” Sirius declared, a dramatic hand on his chest.

“Aw, don’t worry! I appreciate you, Padfoot!” James chimed in, his usual gigantic grin plastered on his face.

“I’ll the snog the hell out of you right this second, Prongs.”

“Guys, this is a strictly no homo zone, remember?” Peter cut in.

“Says who?”

“Says me, Black.”

“MARLENE!” Sirius practically jumped on the counter.

“So needy, jeez.” The blonde rolled her eyes.

“Yeah no, that’s it, I’m definitely drowning myself.”

This generated a big, general fit of laughter from the rest of the group.

“Come on, Pads, don’t pout.” Remus offered the dark-haired boy a delicate glance. “You know I’ve missed you,” he then quickly added, “we all did.”

Sirius answered him with an equally gentle look. Peter sighed loudly before breaking the silence:

“Alright, enough chit-chat you lot. We have a back-to-school prank to set up.”

“You guys are the worst.” Marlene complained.

“But you love us.” Sirius said seducingly. “Everyone does.”

“To another year of mischief?” James asked while extending his hand.

“TO ANOTHER YEAR OF MISCHIEF!” The remaining three proclaimed, piling their hands on top of each other’s.’

Chapter Text

EVAN

Evan took a long look at himself in the mirror, for what seemed like the 100 times this morning. He couldn’t help it. For once in his life, he felt like he’d finally got it: his glow-up. The one everybody talks about. The one where your body decides to slightly switch off from the child-like appearance in favor of a more manly direction. The one that hit James and Peter last summer, the one Sirius never needed because that arsehole was just born like that.

“I may have a fucked-up family, but god knows I have good genes.” He would say. The fucker.

They were very concrete factors to explain this metamorphosis of his. First, sport. Evan had started to play football more seriously than ever before. Ever since he realized that he was quite good, even more than good. That sudden realization filled him with pride. You see, he wasn’t the best at school. He tried his best, but always remained on the average side of things. In general, that’s how he saw himself in life: a nice but forgettable guy. The one you like a decent amount of, yet you wouldn’t stay up all night thinking about something he did or said. But that’s alright. Not everyone can be extraordinary, right? Plus, he was lucky enough to have extraordinary friends. He’s always been happy to tag along, hoping for some of their genius to rub off on him.

But now, he had football. This was a place where he could be better than other people, and he will. The best, even. Yeah. This was his year, the year where people will start using superlatives when talking about him. This newly found confidence probably influenced the glow-up. Obviously, the muscles he gained by exercising all summer were crucial too, especially sublimed with the nice tan that he had gotten while traveling in Italy with his family. He grew a couple of centimeters too. 

Finally, the last deciding factor was that Evan had had sex for the first time this summer too. You guessed it, Italy gave him more than just bronzed skin. They were staying at this resort which offered loads of activities. Among them were parties solely for teenagers. That’s how Evan got to meet Francesca. Two years older, brunette, and as Italian as it gets. Her English was decent. At least, enough for Evan to understand that she had a thing for British accents, and blonde guys in general. Also, she was probably a bit bored too. But he didn’t give a damn about this. He had been so eager to lose his virginity that he wasn’t about to be picky. They had sex in her room, while both of their parents were out visiting some shit. The first time was bad, and about two minutes long. Then they did it again, and it was slightly better. Then, the third time, he grew more confident, and tried things on her. She seemed to like it. For the rest of the vacation, they continued to have sex, from time to time, when there was nothing else to do. She had made it clear from the get go that it wasn’t anything serious, which helped Evan a lot. He liked the arrangement: let’s have sex and then go back to our lives. Which is exactly what they did. They kissed goodbye, and that was it. He returned to England without his virginity card and what felt like a lot of knowledge about the female anatomy. It’s weird, how such a simple thing can change your entire demeanor. He didn’t look different, yet he did? Just weird, human things. Anyways. When he had texted Peter about it, his answer(s) was:

- !!!!!!!!

- MY SON IS ALL GROWN-UP

- so proud of u I could cry

- good for u mate

- also, read your text aloud

- sorry

- was excited

- the boys were there so they know

- James made a thumbs up

- Remus said great

- Sirius did something else but that’s too obscene to describe

- blowjob gesture

- ah wasn’t that hard actually

- lmaooo

- hard

- anyway c u when you get back

- you sexy beast

- love uuuuu <33333

Textbook Peter, that reaction. They had been best friends ever since they were five. They grew up together, and never apart. Which is something Evan was a bit worried about when Peter became friends with James, Sirius and Remus. Or, ‘The Marauders,’ as they liked to call themselves for some reasons. However, Peter quickly reassured him that, no matter what, they remained…well, them. He made a point of including him in all of their plans, while also hanging out with him alone sometimes. Slowly, Evan was able to step out of their group dynamic, to decline on hanging out with them all of the time, to let Peter have this alone without worrying about it. But he still got close to the guys, especially when they all found themselves – apart from Remus – playing football on the same team. That’s how, thanks to captain James and his annoying pet talks about team bonding, he went from Pete’s friend to their friend.

So yeah. Muscles, sex, playing football with his best friends: you could say he was pretty fucking pumped about going back to school.

"Evan you prick! Get out of here I need to get ready!" The voice of his little sister rang through the door, as she banged on it. "Jeez. I wish you had stayed ugly. 'Least then you spent less time in the bathroom."

"Sorry, sis. Hate the game, not the player."

"Yeah, no, I'll keep hating on the player. Thanks for the suggestion though." She said sarcastically. "Also, your disaster of a group is here."

This is all it took for him to quickly grab his backpack before running down the stairs. Surely enough, his friends were waiting in his driveway, James Potter behind the wheel. Evan had initially told him not to stop by his house. It was actually a detour for him, but Jame being James insisted on doing so, every morning, without fail. He had a habit of doing things for others simply for the sake of it. He never expected anything in return. A simple thank you would get him a long way. James Potter, everybody. 

"So, how does it feel to be the town's fittest bloke?" James asked while pulling back.

"As good as ever, Prongs. Thank you for asking."

"Shut up Sirius, let Rosier have this one." Peter interupted. He ruffled Evan's hair while cooing. "My little protégé."

"I'd say you're more on the pretty scale, actually." Remus interjected. "Objectively speaking."

"Aww Moony. You're right, Peter. He really has rizz."

"As if this was ever a debate. Obviously, I'm right. Always." before adding, "Rizzmus Lupin."

"Rizzmus!" Sirius repeated.

"Rizzmus, indeed." James approved. 

"I swear to fucking god if you twats actually start calling me that..."

"I mean, it is catchy." Evan objected. "What? It's true!"

"Goddamnit," Remus sighed "I wish you sucked a bit more at finding nicknames, Pete."

“Yeah. Not gonna happen, mate.”

Evan smiled tenderly at the scene, as they all started bickering again. Yeah. This was going to be a good year.

“Oh, by the way, Rosier,” Sirius gave him his classic up-to-no-good grin, “We have to let you in on today’s prank…”

---

BARTY

Loud. People were oh, so, so very loud here. For no apparent reason, mind you. Whatever had to be said, it was said noisily. Had pancakes for breakfast? Go on, tell the world! No way! You went to France this summer? God forbid you keep it to yourself! Kissed what’s-is-face at the party? Scream it, scream it at the top of your lungs! Christ. Why were people so excited about stuff all of the time? It’s not a big deal. Life, we all do it. Why not be quieter about the whole ordeal? Or, if you want to tell everyone so badly, write a book or something. Do not yell at 8 am.

With a sigh, Barty made a mental note of bringing his headphones with him next time. So far, he had already ticked a few tasks of his to-do list. He went to the secretariat first thing in the morning where they assigned him a locker and made the changes necessary to his schedule. Following his father’s wishes, he added classes and took all the advanced options possible. The woman in charge told him about five times that it was a lot.

“Last time I’ve checked, they give out Nobel prizes to brilliant minds like yours.” He had responded, dryly.

“I’m sorry?”

He had left straightaway, schedule tucked firmly under his arm. Then, he had spent a good minute meticulously organizing his locker. Most of the time, this helped him a lot, refrained him from spiraling: order. Perfect order. Stability was his favorite thing. His day was structured by rituals that he never missed, not for anything in the world.

The bell rang. He closed his locker, took a breath, tired from the lack of sleep he had had yesterday, then marched to his first class. Only two jobs left: getting through the day, then sign up for the football team. Simple enough.

Barty quickly noticed two things about public school: if the students didn’t care, the teachers cared even less. He could empathize with the latter. He wouldn’t have the patience either, seeing how some of these teenagers acted. It was especially bad in the classes he had to share with older students. So far, history had been the worst. The subject was taught by a certain Mr Slughorn. An angry, bitter looking man who acted like everything was better before and terrible after. Not that he said it explicitly, you could just tell. Ever since the beginning of class, he had been picking on the same student.

“Mr Rosier, do you deem it smart to talk with your peers instead of learning?”

“Sir, he wasn’t even the one talking.” The guy next to him had intervened.

“I wonder if you feel embarrassed.” Slughorn continued. “Having to take that class for the second time and still failing to answer simple questions and, in general, being aggressively average in all your other classes. Teachers talk to each other, you know.”

Maybe the guy had it coming. Barty didn’t care, really. However, he still found himself siding with him. Slightly. There were few things he hated more than authority figures being abusive of their power. Slughorn clearly enjoyed to see the guy squirm as the entire class watched the scene. To be honest, Barty was more embarrassed for that grown-ass man who got off on cosplaying as the high school bully he himself had never gotten to be.

'I was like, good gracious ass bodacious, flirtatious, tryin to show faces'

Slughorn, as well as everyone else present, suddenly jumped as music filled the classroom. It appeared to be blasted from the school’s speakers, the one that had been used for a couple of announcements throughout the day.

'I need you to get up up on the dance floor Give that man what he askin for Cuz I feel like bustin loose and I feel like touchin you And cant nobody stop the juice so baby tell me whats the use'

Loud. Fucking loud. Again. This place was Barty’s last circle in the Inferno. Slughorn, obviously too stunned to speak, lost control over the pupils as they more or so all started to sing in unison to Nelly’s song. The universe finally gave them answers when, right in the middle of the chorus, voices cut through the sound:

“Good afternoon, England. Captain Prongs speaking. I am here to deliver news of the…utmost importance. Isn’t that right, Pads?”

“Well indeed, my dear captain. It has been brought to our attention that it was getting…hot in here.”

“Like, really, really hot.”

“So hot, in fact, that one must be in want of…”

“Taking of their clothes.”

“Something we definitely don’t encourage.”

“Blimey, course not!”

“Could you imagine? Such indecency?”

“I guess we’ll have to settle for singing it, rather than acting on it.”

“After you, please.”

They proceeded to do so, while also turning up the volume, so much so that Slughorn’s shouts were barely perceptible. To his great horror, students had all started to sing along. Everyone except Barty, who was still sitting in silence, very much flabbergasted at the whole thing. What the fuck.

---

EVAN

As soon a they heard the lyrics, Evan and Peter busted out laughing. They really did it. Those two idiots. Trust James and Sirius to make sure the school knows about them first thing into the new year. Although, even if they were the faces, there were more brains behind the whole prank. Peter came up with the concept, Remus helped with the technicalities, and James and Sirius executed it all. As for Evan, well, funny you should ask…

“Listen up, people!” He got up on his desk. “Don’t forget that the Rovers will be playing their first game next Friday!”

“So you all better come to catch a glimpse of Rosier in gym shorts!” Peter added, which brought a few whistles. Evan blushed slightly, but remained composed while he continued. “Right. We’re also having tryouts at 4pm, so give it a chance.”

The students started to clap, and he took a minute to enjoy it. This, he thought. It will be like this all season, multiplied by ten. I’ll make sure of it.

His gaze was suddenly drawn to a boy, front row. The guy was looking at his textbook, unbothered. This startled Evan a bit. He felt like he was given a delicious meal but suddenly discovered that a chunk of the food in it was rotten, or something like that. The attention was on him, yet a piece was missing. This shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did. The boy looked completely unfamiliar to him. Well, at least the back of his head did. But before he had a chance to go up to him, the bell rang and the stranger was out of the room in a flick of the wrist. Weird.

"Come on, Ev'," Said Peter. "Before Slughorn has a chance to throw a tantrum at us."

Evan smiled. As he exited the classroom, he let his gaze linger on the place that Mr Unbothered had previously occupied.

---

BARTY

Advanced English. His final class of the day. Barty felt relieved. For a start, he had managed to get through his debut as a high schooler in fucking Britain. Plus, after having been forced to listen to Nelly’s Hot in Here on repeat, the speakers were now fixed. Everything was back to normal. Now, he’d get to enjoy his favorite subject, with hopefully vaguely smartish students or, at least less dumb than the others he had encountered today. Hopefully.

The class was less packed, with only about ten other students. Barty took a seat near the front, before taking out his stationery. He tried not to appear too enthusiast, but the mere sight of Whitman’s portrait next to the blackboard enthralled him.

The teacher entered the room. Barty was taken aback by how young he looked. He had to be in his early thirties, tops. He was dressed very casually, with a simple buttoned-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of pleated trousers. He had short, toffee-colored hair, perfectly styled in an effortless way. His eyes were the sort of blue that makes you uneasy because of how clear they are.

“Well, hello everyone,” he said with a gentle smile. “Welcome to Advanced English. The sole fact that you have made the decision to sign up for this class already tells me how absurdly smart you all are.”

This generated a few laughs. Everyone seemed captivated by the man’s presence, including Barty.

“My name’s Theodor Tonks, but Mr Tonks shall do here. I will only accept nicknames on the condition that they are outstandingly witty. Otherwise, don’t even think about it.” Another smile. “I do like to consider myself an easy-going fella, however, I’m also very impatient when it comes to disrespect. In this class, everybody is entitled to have their own, personal opinion, but you are to also accept and tolerate others’. Do not try to outsmart each others. What I am looking for is passion, interest. Let’s try to make literature a living, breathing creature. This class is not about how many books you’ve already read, but how you react, how you engage with the material. All of this can be summed up in one sentence, which I’d like for you all to consider this class’ official moto.”

He took a white chalk and wrote:

Fuck around and find out.

“Now, with this out of the way, let’s begin. We will start with a personal favorite. A Single Man, by Christopher Isherwood. Now, does anyone already know about it? Read it already, maybe? This won’t get you points, I’m just curious.”

Barty slowly raised his hand, along with another student.

“Mr Black, no surprises there,” Smile. He then looked at Barty, who was stroke by the intensity of his gaze. “You must be the new student. Bartemius Crouch, is it?”

“Barty.” He responded, more drily than he intended. “Sir.”

“You got it, Barty. Welcome, by the way,” He nodded, then went back to the rest of the class. “If you already have a copy, please let me know. Otherwise, I have already placed an order at the local bookshop. We will start to work on it next week, so make sure to get them by then and read the first three chapters,” Pause. “Now, I have prepared a questionnaire for you to fill out during the rest of the class. Don’t sweat it, this is again nothing but curiosity. Can you pass them out? Thank you.”

Barty bit his lip, slowly discovering the content of said questionnaire.

1. Do you write in your free time? Prose, poetry, other?

2. Which character do you relate to the most? (Give reasons if you dare to appear vulnerable.)

3. What’s a book you’d wish to burn because of how much you hate it? N.B: burning books is a fascist act.

4. Share a favorite quote.

Right. This already seemed way too personal for Barty. He debated for some time about whether he should lie on his answers or not. He had no desire to be psychoanalyzed by his English teacher. Yet…He felt some type of warm towards the man. There was something in him that made Barty want to be noticed, in a way.

Nope, he thought while shaking his head. Not doing this.

He erased his answers, keeping only the 3rd. Hating on stuff. That, he had no problem with. He could do it very publicly forever and ever.

When he handed back his sheet at the end of class, he couldn’t help but see a flash of something – disappointment, concern, confusion? – in his teacher’s eyes. He quickly brushed it off before he rushed out of class. Now, all that was left to do was to go and prove himself at this stupid football try outs.

He sighed as he walked towards his locker. He couldn’t wait to be in his bed.

Chapter Text

THE GIRLS

They were all waiting, sitting on the bleachers all in their own personal way. Lily liked to sit cross-legged and rest her arms on her knees, whereas Marlene was more of a ‘legs sprawled out’ type of girl. Mary preferred to cross only her ankles, thus showing the length of her light brown skin legs.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Lily said with a long sigh.

“Cause Mary’s horny,” Marlene answered, snorting.

“I am a sexually liberated modern woman and I won’t apologize for it,” Mary shrugged, then added: “Plus, who says I don’t enjoy football?”

“Uugh, I can’t believe we’re doing this!” Lily complained. “We look like stupid groupies.”

“Your internalized misogyny is showing, Lil’s,” Mary noted. “Come on, it’ll be fun! I get to watch men in shorts and you get to criticize them for existing.”

“I mean, when you put it like that…” Lily smirked.

“D’you reckon Potter is going to think you’re interested if he sees you here?” Marlene asked.

“James? God, no. I mean, I’ve been very clear to him.”

“There was something charming about his persistence though.” Mary admitted. “Like stalking but make it cute?”

“Oh my god you’re REALLY horny.” Marlene laughed out loud, to which Mary answered by sticking out her tongue. Lily rolled her eyes, but she was very much smiling as well. She let her eyes train on the pitch, where the players - or aspiring ones – were warming up. She watched as they all went silent at the sound of James Potter’s voice.

“Alright guys, listen up!”

BARTY

He made sure to be the first one there. Mainly because (a) he didn’t have anything else to do while waiting for the try-outs and (b) he didn’t want to be stuck in the locker rooms with all the other guys and be forced to talk to them. He knows he won’t be able to avoid this once he’ll be on the team, but for now he’ll take all the peace he could get. He needed to focus, which would be impossible with ten monkeys screaming and spanking each other’s, or whatever football culture was.

When all the other guys arrived, he stayed in his corner, stretching his ankles and doing a couple of quick runs. It wasn’t long before they were all called to form a line in front of a tall brown-haired guy with glasses. He was wearing a yellow armband which read ‘captain’. Barty’s immediate thought was that this man had probably never seen a hairbrush in his entire life. He had the messiest curls, which looked more like spikes to be honest. He didn’t look the least intimidating, yet when he started talking, everyone went silent.

“Thanks. Welcome, everyone! I hope you all a good first day so far,” he gave them an enormous smile. “My name is James Potter and I’m the team’s captain. I play centre back. As you may know, we’ve lost a couple of guys to college last year. We have a some positions to fill but in order to be fair, all of last’s year players will also participate in the try-outs. I won’t play favourites though. What I am looking for is passion, endurance, and of course team spirit. Now, shall we?”

As he announced this, a man in his forties approached him, suddenly exiting the locker rooms. He had dark skin with exceptionally broad shoulders. His hair was completely shaved and the outline of a tattoo was peaking through the neckline of his t-shirt. “Well spoken, James,” he took a place next to the latter as he announced, “my name is Wilson Meadowes, but you can call me Coach. I’ll be supervising the try-outs with James and we’ll both decide at the end who will make the team. We have prepared a series of exercises, which James will walk you through.”

Barty could tell that there was an intense connection between the two. As if it was perfectly rehearsed, Potter started to speak again, explaining the entire program to them. So far, Barty hadn’t even looked at the other players.

“Right,” said James, “The first task is simple enough: I am going to call your name and you’ll tell me which position you’re applying for.”

That is when Barty finally allowed himself to gauge his competition. He wasn’t really paying attention, but his ears still significantly pricked up twice:

The first time was when he heard the name Sirius Black. Finally, a face on one of the infamous brothers his stepmom and dad wanted him to befriend. He was pretty short compared to the other guys there and he seemed to have long hair, though he had put them in a sort of bun. This surprised Barty, considering how uptight the Black family sounded like. He applied for right fullback and instantly got up to James Potter to give him a high five. No favourites? Right. As if.

The second time was entirely different. After he had heard his name – and corrected it to Barty straightaway with his usual dry tone – and informed both the coach, captain, and everyone else there that he wanted to play striker, Sirius Black had commented, laughing:

“Looks like there’s competition after all, Rosier.”

This forced Barty to turn around – not fully, he didn’t want to appear that interested – following Sirius ‘movement. He was faced with a blonde guy who looked both skinny and rugged at the same time. Funnily enough, blondie was already staring intensely at him. He had a smile on, but this didn’t fool him one bit. Everything in his body language testified that he was tense. Really tense.

“Look’s like it,” he said, with a false joking voice, “Write me down as striker too, James.”

Oh, this should be fun.

See, Barty didn’t initially plan to start shit, but the look on Rosier’s face stirred something in him. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this, which is why the sudden prospect of winning against him filled him with delight. He was smart and he knew exactly how to act to shake the boy’s up. He’ll distract him on the pitch and assure that he will not only lose his place on the team but that he’ll do it with the biggest level of embarrassment possible. Call him childish, but this was the first time in this nightmare of a new life that he actually felt something. Excitement, something to look forward to.

After eyeing him up and down, Barty stopped his gaze on the guy’s face and gave him his smuggest smirk before turning away.

EVAN

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan. Evan knew all of the guys applying this season. Not only this, but he knew for a fact that none of them wanted to be a striker. Well, except for Fabian, a red-haired who was absolute shit at football. He had known all summer that this position was basically his already. There was no doubt about it. James was sure of it, Peter was sure of it, hell, even the coach had made it clear that Evan didn’t need to worry. Yet there he was, learning that someone else wanted to play at the same position he did. It took him a while but when he was called out, Evan recognized him.

It was the same guy who hadn’t paid any attention to the prank in class, to him. Mr unbothered. Mr I-don’t-give-two-shit about the rest of the world. Barty Crouch.

There was only one opening for a new striker. One. Up until know, Evan knew it was going to be him. Now, he felt a tension rise from his stomach, gluing itself inside his chest. He played it off when Sirius commented on it, but there wasn’t any humour in him.

Evan didn’t realize that he was staring before he was suddenly faced with him. For a moment, he was taken aback. He had seen many intense looks in his life, but this was a different. So much was contained in his eyes. For a second, Evan felt like he was going to fall. This was not a gentle stare. This was a menace, and even if he had doubted this, the smirk he gave him was categorical. The guy had no intention to play nice.

So be it, he thought, I’ll take you on, Barty Crouch.

---

The program was as follows: they’ll start by making passes at each other, divided into two columns where they’ll move as soon as they had made an exchange with another player and vice-versa. Afterwards, they’ll complete an obstacle course where they’ll be timed. The aim was to test their speed, but above all their coordination. Then, a penalty shoot-out. This was the most crucial part for strikers. After all, your value resides in the fact that you score for your team. They’ll most likely take a few corner kicks and headers as well. 

To be honest, besides penalties, Evan was the most worried about the final part of the try-outs: James and the coach had decided to end the session with a “friendly” game. This is where they actually get to see you in action; it is the task that will decide your fate. You can outdo everyone else in the other exercises but at the end of the day, if you can’t play a game, you’re out.

Evan was absolutely restless.

So far, he hadn’t managed to judge how much of a threat Crouch really was. He was fast, but so was he. He could make good passes, but that was the minimum expected. What also bothered him was that, ever since the smirk, Crouch hadn’t once tried to make eye-contact with him. In fact, he completely ignored him, as well as everyone else. He was simply doing his thing.

“Alright, take five everyone! Drink some water, relax. We’ll start with the penalties after the break.”

Five minutes. Good. This was his chance to recalibrate, to focus. He wished he could talk to Peter, but as a goalie, he was currently preparing himself and Evan knew better than to bother him. He searched for James and Sirius instead. James was busy with the coach, of course, and he discovered that Sirius had gone to talk to the girls on the bleachers. Well, the girls and Remus, who must have arrived shortly before. He picked up his water bottle and trotted over to them.

He knew them all, though he wasn’t particularly close to any of them, except for Lily Evans. She had tutored him a couple of times and they eventually became friends. James had begged him to fish for details in order to seduce her. She rejected him more times than he could count, but at least it seemed to be clear enough for James now. Hopefully.

“Hi Evan!” Lily said, grinning at him. He nodded in her direction, before greeting the rest of them.

“Are you…okay?” Remus asked with a frown. “You look tense.”

“Rosier is basically shitting himself,” Sirius, yet again, intervened. “New guy has him all worked up.”

“Can you give him a break?” Remus snapped, which shut Sirius altogether. This was his secret power. Somehow, he had a bigger influence than everybody else in the group when it came to the older Black. At times, Evan was convinced that he could control Sirius with a flick of the wrist and make him to whatever he wanted to. Though Remus would never, of course.

“So, new guy…?” Marlene questioned them, eager to know more about the situation.

“Right,” Evan took a sip of water, trying to form words in his head, “well, he’s also applying for striker. Like me.”

“Ouch.” Marlene responded, while Lily gave him an empathetic look.

“Don’t sweat it, Rosier. I’m sure the guy’s mid, tops.” Sirius said, all amusement gone from his voice.

Evan acquiesced. It was nice of his friends to reassure him, but he knew it wasn’t that simple.

“By the way,” Mary suddenly said, “what’s his name? New guy?”

“Here we go,” Lily sighed.

“Told you,” Marlene laughed, “Mary has a crush.”

“Oh come on, the bloke is fucking fit. You all can’t deny it!” Mary protested.

“Barty Crouch,” Sirius provided, “and he’s not that fit.”

“Jealous much, Black?” Mary smirked. “Remus, please, back me up.”

The latter shrugged. “He is pretty good-looking.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but decided against it. With a shrug, he bid them goodbye and went back to the pitch.

“Sirius Black, the man with the biggest ego ever.” Lily declared, solemnly.

“He’s a bit stressed,” Evan defended him, “we all are.”

A whistle blew. The break was over.

Evan was about to go when he was stopped by Lily’s hand.

“You got this, Evan,” she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “for luck.”

“WAIT!” Mary got up, proceeding to do the same. “There, double luck.”

Evan blushed, overwhelmed by this affection. Remus looked at him with kind eyes. “I won’t kiss you cause it’s starting to look like a harem, but break a leg. We’ll go for milkshakes afterwards, my treat.”

Marlene opted for a thumbs up. Evan bowed stupidly before returning to the pitch. As soon as he had turned, he caught a quick sight of Barty Crouch before the boy looked away. Oh, so now he had his attention?

You have all of mine, Crouch.

He took one last sip of his bottle and went to place himself in front of the goal, along with all of the players. Peter was in position, ready as ever. Evan wouldn’t be surprised if most of the guys didn’t score. Peter was an extraordinary goalie, reflexes so quick he could catch a fly in mid-air (he did it multiple times, actually).

He positioned himself. Crouch was two rows before him. Somehow, he couldn’t help but think that this was intentional, as if he wanted Evan to see him shoot before him. Intimidation, probably. Maybe he was merely trying to distract him, which, to Evan’s annoyance, worked. He was paying no mind to the other players. He was waiting for Crouch and Crouch only.

When it happened, Evan braced himself. He tried to stay composed, as Crouch took a few steps back. Everybody watched as he kicked the ball straight into the far left of the goal’s crossbar. The impact was so violent that a wide ‘pang’ pierced the air. Even Peter seemed startled by the power of the shot.

Evan gulped. Crouch hadn’t scored, but he had aim and a great deal of shooting power. When he went to fetch the ball, he locked eyes with Evan on the way back. He offered him another, slightly less intense, version of the smirk.

Stop fucking looking at me.

BARTY

He was winning. He knew it. Barty had felt Rosier’s eyes on him during all the exercises, but he didn’t look back. Not once. Rosier was waiting for him to show a sign of weakness, he wanted to assess his abilities. Barty could have shown off, but he didn’t. He waited till the penalty shoot-out to fully reveal his actual potential. He made a point of going before Rosier. When he knew that his attention was fully focussed on him, he kicked with everything he had. If someone decided to cut the ball open, they’d see it all: his anger against the world, his frustration, his inability to truly feel, his father, his stepmom, his mother…

No wonder why the impact was so violent.

But he hadn’t scored. The shot might have been impressive, but he had to do more.

When it was Rosier’s turn, he bit his tongue. Then, he followed the path of the ball with his eyes, freezing as he saw it crash straight into the back of the net.

Rosier had scored. He was the only one so far.

When he walked back, he didn’t give Barty anything. Not even a glance. Nothing.

On the second set of shots, Evan scored again. Barty didn't. Evan still wasn't looking.

By the third and final set of shots, Barty was feeling more frustrated than ever. He breathed, took a step back and then, at the last moment, before shooting, he changed his footing, causing the goalkeeper to dive to the opposite side as the ball went straight into the top corner.

By the third and final set of shots, Barty had scored. Evan hadn’t. This time, Barty didn’t care if he was looking. He had seen his shot. That was enough.

JAMES

Though he didn’t show it, James was a bit anxious. You’d have to be blind not to feel the tension between Crouch and Evan. He had rarely seen his friend that worried when playing football. Usually, every single movement, kick, header, dribble was executed effortlessly. Sure, he had the normal adrenaline-induced stress, but this was different.

To be fair, James felt a bit responsible. After all, he had basically promised Evan the spot all summer. He didn’t consider the possibility of a new student showing up and being…this good. Because yeah, the kid really knew what he was doing. He was fast, smooth and his kicks? Blimey, James had almost jumped at the sound of the first one.

But Evan was an amazing player too. At this stage, he couldn’t tell if one of them was better than the other.

“It's going to be hard to decide between them, isn't it?” the coach said, with a light chuckle.

James forced himself to smile.

“Well,” the coach added, “I guess the game will decide.”

Hopefully.

“We should get on with it, actually.” He whistled. “Boys, come here. We’ll form two teams.”

James knew it before Meadowes said anything. He knew, and he was proven right, as he heard the coach say:

“Rosier, team 1, and Crouch, 2.”

Of course. 

Which made sense, in order to chose between the two. But still. 

“Right, let’s do this.” James gulped. “The game will last 30 minutes, then coach and I will deliberate for about ten minutes and we will announce the results. Reminder, this is a friendly game. Don’t need to overdo it.”

Sirius instantly found his gaze when he said ‘friendly.’ As usual, they had one of their silent, telepathic conversations.

You don’t actually believe what you’re saying, Prongs?

I’m manifesting for it to be true, Pads.

BARTY

All players must shake hands before starting. It's a tradition, a way of wishing each other good luck and an implicit promise of fair play. When he came face to face with Rosier, Barty deliberately backed up his gesture with more vigour than necessary. This did not disturb the blond as much as he would have liked. On the contrary, just as he was about to let go, Rosier mocked him:

"Let's hope you're better than you were in the penalty shoot-out.”

Before Barty had a chance to reply, he had turned away. With a scoff, he went to take his place as the whistle blew, signalling the start of the game.

---

There were only 15 minutes left. The two teams were level at 1-1. He and Rosier had both scored. Since then, they had been hot on each other's heels. Nothing was going Rosier's way, mainly thanks to Pettigrew and his fucking reflexes. For their part, Barty and his team-mates had a solid defence in Sirius Black. The ball kept flying from side to side without anyone scoring.

Needless to say, Barty was fuming.

Then it happened.

One of his team missed the pass, and Rosier recovered it in mid-air with a torso control. Then, without anyone being able to stop him, he began to cross the whole pitch, dribbling past each player as if his feet were glued to the ball. He was going to score. Barty knew it. Sirius was too high up the pitch, he wouldn't have time to get back.

That's when Barty started to run. Ignoring everything else, he abandoned his place as striker and ran straight at the defence, towards Rosier.

EVAN

Evan felt like he was going to fly away any minute. He was running at full speed, now only a few metres from the goal. It was in the bag. Sirius was too far away to interfere.

Then it happened.

One second, he was on his feet, and the next he fell to the ground following a perfectly executed tackle. Completely shaken, he got up just in time to see the silhouette of Barty Crouch moving away from him. Two minutes later, Crouch scored.

The coach whistled for the end of the match. 2-1. His team had lost.

---

“You sure you’re alright? You took quite the fall.” Lily asked for the millionth time.

“Man, that was a fucking clean tackle.” Sirius admitted, swallowing water.

They were back on the bleachers, waiting as James and the coach were talking.

“S’okay,” Evan said. “It looked more impressive than it really was.”

“Should have seen the look on his face when he scored,” Peter clenched his teeth, “he was bloody scary.”

“Remus and I were talking,” Marlene announced, “we’ve already met him, actually.”

“Really?” Sirius frowned.

“Holy Bean yesterday,” Remus explained, “was pretty rude too.”

“Maybe he’s a bit defensive because he’s new here?” Lily suggested.

“Or maybe he’s just an asshole.” Sirius retorted.

“I’m going to fill up my bottle, I’ll be back.” Evan said as he got up.

He couldn’t bear to listen to all of them now. This was making him feel like shit.

As he entered the toilets, he was faced with none other than Crouch, head bent under the sink, drinking. For a second, he entertained the possibility of smashing his head against the ceramic, but he didn't do it. Instead, he simply moved to another sink, in silence. He really should have shut the fuck up, but without any explanation, he cleared his throat, then spoke:

"That was a nice tackle."

"I beg your pardon?"

Evan turned to look at him. He repeated calmly.

“I said, that was a nice tackle.”

For a bit, Crouch appeared to be speechless. Evan took this time to observe him. His hair was wet and drops were beading on his face, a mixture of sweat and the water he'd probably splashed on himself to cool off. What struck him most was that his features seemed relaxed. At least, more relaxed than before. He almost looked normal. When he locked eyes with him, Evan almost sworn he saw a flash of... something. Something almost gentle ?

But it only lasted a second before Crouch’s face hardened. Wiping the water from around his mouth, he suddenly moved closer to Evan, menacing.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I said- “

Barty came even closer, now chest to chest with him.

“Well, stop it.”

He forcefully brushed shoulder against him before exiting the room, leaving Evan confused, a confusion that quickly morphed into anger.

It was official. He hated him.

---

“Sirius Black, right back. Xenophilius Lovegood, left back. Benjy Fenwick and Frank Longbottom, central midfielders…”

As James was reciting the list of the players who had made it, Evan was biting the inside of his cheek insistently.

“Goalie, Peter Pettigrew…”

Please, let’s cut to the chase.

“Finally, for the position of striker…”

Barty took a stepforward, as well as Evan, without intending to.

“Barty Crouch and Evan Rosier!”

See, Evan wasn’t one to curse out loud, especially not in front of the coach, but the words escaped his mouth before he could even think about them.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Chapter Text

BARTY

Barty didn’t know what he was expecting exactly when he announced to his father that he had made the team. Or, he did, but somehow, he had still hoped for a different reaction. Well, a reaction, period.

Sir Crouch had had none.

He had simply nodded, punctuating it with a simple, dry, ‘good.’

His stepmom was excited, but it had nothing to do with him. He was a way for her to strut her stuff in front of her friends, as insignificant as if she'd suddenly stumbled across a miracle anti-wrinkle cream. Probably more meaningless, in fact.

As for Barty, when he’d first learn about it, on the pitch, his first reaction had been one of annoyance. What comforted him was that he hadn’t been the only one in that case. Hearing Rosier curse the shit out of him in front of the coach was pretty amusing.

“We think you’re both too good not to be on the team.”

Bullshit. Potter simply couldn’t bear to see his little friend cry. As a result, they were both strikers and they’ll have to share playing time. Initially, Potter had offered to swap them at every game, but they had both refused. Clearly, neither he nor Rosier could imagine watching the other from the bench every other game. The arrangement was therefore as follows: 45 minutes each. Barty was okay with the deal. That is, until he eventually and definitely proved himself as better than Rosier and get full time.

Which he will.

Minus this, the rest of his first week at school had been pretty uneventful which, in Barty’s slang, meant ‘excellent.’ He’ll have to put in a little work in maths, but, as he had expected, he’ll do more than fine in his other classes. The most important thing was regularity, establishing habits and sticking to them. As for school, he carefully crafted a studying plan for each subject. One hour of this on Monday, evening off on Tuesday, another hour of this on Wednesday, and so on. Football practice once a week, every Thursday, after school. Their first game was a friendly one against the neighboured town. It was set for this Friday night. It wouldn’t count for the actual championship and was just a way to assess the team’s new arrangements. Still, Barty intended to act like it he was participating in the World’s Cup. In fact, he had already incorporated a Sunday morning run in his list of rituals.

Today was Saturday. He had woken up at 8. He was always up early, due to his father. To him, staying in bed till late was lazy and so he had got Barty used to always being awake early, a habit now so ingrained in him that whether he went to bed at 7am or 2am, he still woke up around 8. The problem with this was that he was then faced with a day far too long to fill. He envied people who could sleep until midday. They only had a few hours to kill before going to sleep, whereas Barty's days seemed to last a thousand years. Too much time to think, to brood. Too much time for mental torture. He hated it. At least being at school gave him something else to do with his mind. Weekends were hell.

He checked his watch. One fifteen. His father and stepmom were away for the weekend. He almost wished they were here. They would probably force him to go somewhere or do something. At least he’d be busy.

The only thing he had planned was to re-read the first three chapters of A Single Man in order to prepare for Mr Tonks’ next class. It was his only joker of the day and he didn't want to use it up already. He was staring blankly at his ceiling when his phone buzzed. This scared the shit out of him, mainly because his phone rarely did. He’d get calls from his father or stepmom, or sometimes other relatives, but they almost never texted.

He reached over to his bedside table and grabbed phone. He unlocked it and frowned when he saw that he had been added to a group chat called ‘Rover Boys.’ A text was sent shortly after.

- Hi ! It’s James 😊

- Thought I’d make a group chat for the team cause it’s easier (to communicate with everyone about practice n stuff)

- But also to hang out !!!

- Btw me and Sirius are going bowling if some of u want to join

- Also can anyone send a text with their name so that I can save your numbers?

- Thanks 😊😊😊

Jesus. So many emojis. Barty would bet that James Potter was in fact smiling behind his phone right this second. He had never seen anyone that happy to…exist?

He watched as numerous names started to appear on his screen, his eyes lingering on a particular one.

- Hey it's Evan!

He decided to click on his profile. His status consisted of a football and a running man emoji. Ridiculous, if you asked him.

Then, without knowing why, Barty selected his profile picture. Rosier was looking up at the camera, all smiley, wearing a dark jacket, blurry window behind him. Probably taken on the bus or something. Seeing his face brought him back to their interaction in the bathroom lockers. He had been so taken aback by his attitude. Why the fuck would he compliment him? It didn’t make any sense. However, what made even less is how he felt when he'd heard Rosier’s praise: good. The comment gave his face a warmth, all of a sudden. He had been so angry at him for this. His voice, without any aggression, his eyes and face completely neutral, ‘that was a nice tackle.’ If Rosier had decided to play mind games, Barty will be more than happy to oblige. 

He kept staring at the picture before he was interrupted by yet another notification sound. He shook his head, exited the profile, and then finally sent his name to the group chat.

- Barty.

In the end, he only saved James' number.

---

Barty was on the verge of admitting that he didn’t completely despise his English teacher (like seemed way too intense of a word). He had caught himself slightly snorting at the man twice ever since the beginning of class, and they were only ten minutes in. If he wasn’t here, Barty could definitely see him on stage, performing in some sort of way. He just knew how to address an audience; every word perfectly chosen, yet it all flowed so naturally.

“Alright, now let’s get to business folks.” Mr Tonks clapped his hand. “Today, we’ll be discussing the 1^st chapter of A Single Man. But first…,” he paused, looking at them with a mischievous grin, playing with their patience, “you all remember the quiz you had to fill? Well, I may have lied when I said it was purely curiosity on my end.”

Shit. Barty had forgotten about this.

“Now, don’t panic, I’m not about to share your answers with everyone. However, my goal with this class is to generate conversation, exchanges between all of you. Looking at the seat arrangements, I can tell that some of you already know each other, but I want you to explore other dynamics, with people you’re unfamiliar with.”

He sat on his desk, crossing his arms.

“I strongly believe that, amongst all the wonderful things life might have to offer us, forming relationships, interacting with others is one the most enriching experiences. We can read all the books we want, but we’ll never learn as much as we will from each other. I’m not only talking about family, friends or lovers, though those are precious of course, but also the people you dislike, or don’t necessarily care about. Disagreement, differences teach us a great deal and shouldn’t be undermined. Upon the temple of Apollo, one could read these words: ‘Know thyself.’ I can but emphasize how much of this relies on engaging with people around you. Throughout your life, confronting yourself with the world at large will allow you to reinforce, contradict and put into perspective whatever you think you know about yourself. It is both an essential and magical process.”

He looked at the students, still smiling.

“So, in that spirit, I’ve looked at all of your answers and formed pairs. Whoever you’ve been assigned will sit next to you for the rest of the semester. My choice may be surprising or confusing, simply because I’ve tried to put you with someone that, from my limited knowledge, couldn’t be more different than you are. Don’t take this as a curse, but rather, a challenge, a chance to shake up your habits. An opportunity to exchange with someone you might have never thought to exchange with otherwise. I’ve printed out this sheet,” he pinned it on the board, “search for your name and the desk at which you’ll be sited, and then…well, officially embark on the adventure that your possibly cringey English teacher has set up.”

Alright, on second thoughts, Barty might actually despise Mr Tonks. Looking at the empty seat next to him, he groaned. Goodbye, peace. He got up, looked up his name, then took place at his newly assigned desk. He waited expectantly for his neighbour to show up. Eventually, a blonde girl came up to him, before proceeding to sit. She then gave Barty an enormous smile – almost manic, actually – before declaring, in a sing-song voice:

“Hello! I’m Pandora.”

“Barty.” He simply answered, shuffling with his stuff to pretend to be busy.

“Why don’t you like your name?”

“Sorry?”

“Bartemius. I think it’s really pretty.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Honorable son.” Seeing his confused face, she added, “It means honorable son. It’s Greek.”

Honorable son. The universe surely had a great sense of irony.

“Pandora also comes from the Greek, actually.” She continued, “It means…”

“All-gifted.”

“You know Greek?” She now seemed way too excited.

“I’m not stupid, that’s all.”

She pouted, offering a look of such intense disappointment that you'd have sworn she'd just heard the worst news ever. Barty sighed inwardly. He had to make an effort. After all, he was going to have to sit next to her all semester. He could at least try to be cordial. Forcing a vaguely animated tone, he said:

“I guess I just enjoy etymology.”

Her smile returned immediately, as if nothing had happened.

“Reggie loves etymology!”

Right. The infamous Reggie.

“Well, good for Reggie?”

Fucking hell. He really sucked at small talk.

She was about to start talking again but, fortunately, Mr Tonks interrupted them.

“Right, now that you’ve all met your partner, let’s discuss the book’s incipit.”

---

During the next hour, Barty discovered the following things about Pandora Lambros:

• She was Greek, but had always lived here
• She was an only child
• She was an Aquarius (and had guessed that Barty’s sign was Capricorn on the first try which, granted, was a bit impressive)
• She used scented highlighters (she insisted that Barty try them on, making him guess each scent, before asking him which one he preferred)
• Her favourite writer was Mary Oliver (she'd gasped when Barty told her he didn't know her, and promised to bring him one of her books next time)

Mainly, he learned that no matter what, Pandora couldn’t be ignored. She never stopped talking and asking questions, smiling profusely at the smallest bit of information he gave her. Never in his life had he met someone like that, and while he did find her annoying, he still couldn’t help but be fascinated, in a way. At least, she wasn’t boring.

When the bell rang, she got up excitedly, waving him goodbye with yet another grin.

“I’ll see you later, Bartemius!”

Then disappeared on the arm of a dark-haired boy who was waiting for her by the door.

Jesus. Barty was absolutely exhausted. He hadn’t had such an intense conversation in years. As he was clearing his stuff from the desk, Mr Tonks approached him.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you loath me for this?”

Barty shrugged, remaining silent.

“Look, I know this is really out of your comfort zone, but I’m sure that you’ll eventually realise the positive outcome that this could bring you.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m just…shy.”

This was such a ridiculous lie but it sure sounded better than ‘I just despise people and I have no desire to engage with them more than necessary, especially in the name of this know thyself bullshit.’

Mr Tonks simply nodded.

“Well, I’ll let you go then.”

As he was about to exit the classroom, the man called him back, stopping Barty dead in his tracks:

“I know the difference between being shy and closing yourself off from the world, Mr Crouch.”

Barty didn’t answer and simply left.

---

EVAN

Evan had always considered himself an easy-going guy. Sure, he wasn’t on the level of James-the-actual-sun-Potter, but no one would ever describe him as something other than nice. He would get on the usual argument with his little sister, but other than that, he tended to avoid conflict. He either liked people, or didn’t really care for them. Even then, he’d remain polite, making chit-chat and all that. Statistically, he knew you couldn’t get through your entire life without making some enemies, but it had never happened to him so far.

Until he met Barty Crouch.

That’s how Evan realized why he had never hated anyone. You can dislike someone for very futile reasons, or even no reason at all, but to consider them your actual enemy, it takes more: a threat against something you deeply care about. A guy trying to steal one’s girlfriend, a criminal and a judge, celebrities with paparazzi. You name it.

Evan had never had any enemy not because he was too nice, but because no one had ever been a menace to something he cared about.

Until he met Barty Crouch.

It was not the simple fact that he had applied to be a striker too. After all, this was fair. It’s not like James could have gatekept the position for him. No, what made him hate Barty Crouch was the way he had behaved during the try-outs, his intentions behind the whole scheme. He had provoked him, tried to bully him into failing. He had wanted to hurt him. This was more than just football. Evan had initially given him the benefit of the doubt, but their encounter in the bathroom definitely settled the fact that Barty was not a good person and that he had no intention to show any form of cordiality towards him.

Jesus. To think that the season hadn’t even started yet.

He hoped that Crouch would make an effort once they'll both be on the pitch, at least. Surely he'll have the decency not to penalise the whole team, as well as ruining their chances in the championship. 

Alternatively, Evan could still push him into in his final throes and get him kicked out of the team. Except he didn't know how he'd manage that without jeopardizing his own place. 

No wonder he had always avoided conflict. Hating Barty Crouch was fucking exhausting. How could someone he despised still occupy so much place in his head? His entire first week of school had been devoted to that prick: Entering a class and expecting him to be in it, or crossing the hallway looking for his face, spending an entire lesson replaying the way he had tackled him, the smirk he had given him the first time they met each other...

Maybe Crouch had done some voodoo shit on him. There had to be some sort of explanation. 

But of course, everybody else thought he was just being dramatic. 

“I think you’re being unfair, Evan.”

“You just want to fuck him, Mary.” He replied, rolling his eyes.

“That’s like, so misogynistic.”

“You can’t just answer that every time.”

“I can, and I will.”

“Okay well you’re invalidating my feelings. Not very woke of you.”

They were sitting on the grass, enjoying a breath of fresh air before they had to go to their next class. Marlene was braiding Lily’s long red hair, while Mary was just sunbathing. Remus was having a fag, dispersing the smoke after each puff, which Evan was thankful for.

“Again, my guess is that he’s just intimidated because he’s new here.” Lily intervened.

“Yeah he clearly threatened me out of fear, right.” Evan answered, sarcastically.

“Threatened is a bit strong.” Marlene noted.

“Alright, enough.” Remus interrupted. “Here’s an idea: Mary, go talk to him, invite him to hang out or whatever and form your own opinion about him.”

“I’ll bet you 10 pounds you’ll regret it.” Evan snorted.

“Well, I’ll bet you 20 I’ll have a date by tonight.” She retorted with a wink.

“You’re on, Mcdonalds.”

They shook hands.

“Okay, Crouch case is closed for now. Now can we please talk about something else?” Lily sighed, propping herself on her elbows.

“Here’s something else that’s actually worth complaining about: I have to go eat at the Blacks on Wednesday night.” Marlene stated, dramatically.

“Must be so hard having rich parents.” Remus took out another puff.

“That’s not the point! My issue is the way I am forced to play socialite with them.”

“I’m just messing with you, Marls,” he gave her a shrug, “I get it. From what Sirius has told me…yeah, no wonder he’s not living with them anymore.”

“Exactly. Have you ever had Walburga Black looked you in the eyes? It’s like bloody Medusa or something.” Marlene shivered.

“Maybe Dorcas will be there?” Lily suggested.

“This will give you the opportunity to avoid talking to her for the millionth time!” Mary laughed. “You’ve been crushing on her for like one year, Marls. You need to ask her out.”

“Uuugh but the vibes are never right!” She complained.

“Ah, yes, the vibes.” Mary nodded her head. “Don’t you just hate when you definitely want to ask someone out but the mystical power of the vibes is blocking you?”

“Happens to me all the time.” Lily sighed.

“It really is a curse.” Mary added.

“I hate you,” Marlene buried her face in her hands, “uugh she’s so hot!”

Evan smiled, looking at her kindly. Marlene had indeed been pining for Dorcas all of last year, without making any progress. It was especially infuriating when everyone but her could see that Dorcas was definitely flirting with her.

“Why don’t you find an excuse to hang out?” He offered. “Tutoring or something?”

“I knew you just wanted to get in my pants, Evan.” Lily joked, before adding, “It’s not that bad of an idea, actually. Bit clichéd but could work.”

“Tutoring…” Marlene seemed to think out loud. “Hey, Dorcas, I’ve actually been meaning to ask…” She paused. “You know what? I think I could do it. Maybe.”

“You can and you will!” Mary cheered. “Let’s go lesbians!”

“I’ll update you minute per minute on the group chat anyway.”

“A group chat without me? Is Remus in it?” Evan pretended to be shocked.

“Why? Just because I’m gay? That’s pretty homophobic, you know.” Remus blew smoke in his face, amused.

“Mysogynistic and homophobic,” Mary looked him up and down, “you’re soo boyfriend material, Rosier.” She got up, brushing her skirt. “Speaking of, I am going to go talk to my maybe future boyfriend. Wish me luck. Don’t forget to put 10 pounds aside for me, Evan.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

“We actually all have to go to, guys.” Lily looked at her watch. “I’d rather die than be late for Mcgonagall’ class.”

“Agree. She’s so mother.” Marlene said.

“Sooo mother.” Lily repeated.

Evan exchanged a glance with Remus who just shrugged, silently mouthing ‘don’t know’. Soon after, they were all on their way to class. Well, apart from Mary.

BARTY

Oh yeah, another thing Barty discovered about Pandora Lambros that day: she didn’t use figure of speech. So, when she said ‘see you later,’ she actually meant that she would be seeing Barty later. Because they shared another class? No, obviously, that’d be too simple. Pandora being Pandora, she created an interaction all on her own.

Barty was silently eating lunch with nothing but the blissful company of a book when she appeared with her own tray, same boy who had waited for her standing by her side. Before he could utter anything, she took a sit in front of him, followed by her dark-haired friend.

“Hello, Bartemius.”

She smiled.

“H-hi?”

“This is Reggie.” She gestured to her friend.

“Right. Hi, Reggie.”

The boy simply nodded. He seemed very amused by the situation. Barty had rarely been so confused.

“Reggie also loves etymology.”

“Yeah, you’ve…mentioned...that.”

She laughed then, as she was about to speak again, she gasped:

“Dang it, I forgot to buy a drink. You want something?”

She actually didn’t really wait on an answer. In a flash, she was on her feet, trotting to the vending machine. Barty took the opportunity to breathe, blinking several times, still utterly bewildered.  

“So which one is it?” The boy in front of him suddenly said, interrupting his spiraling.

“Pardon me?”

“Which one of your parents resented you so much that they chose Bartemius?” As Barty was about to clap back, he added « Personally, it was my dear mother. » Then, he extended his hand, in an elegant gesture. “Regulus Arcturus Black, if you can believe it.”

Ah. The other Black, at last. Now that he had mentioned it, Barty felt foolish for not making the connection sooner. Their features were very similar, at least their main ones. The angular, sharp-edged face structure, the dark hair, the natural circles under their eyes. Yeah, their resemblance was both striking and obvious. Yet, he still found it hard to believe that they were related. He didn’t really know any of them but their demeanor seemed so…radically opposed?

« It was my father’s idea. I’m named after him.” He extended his hand in return. “Bartemius Crouch Jr, if you can believe it.”

“Jr? I’m tempted to say that this makes your fate worse than mine.”

“Debatable. Regulus Arcturus is pretty absurd. Is your mother an astronomer?”

Regulus’ mouth slightly twitched, which Barty guessed was his version of a smile.

“Family tradition. Everyone’s name has something to do with stars and other…celestial antics.”

Right. Sirius, Regulus, Orion and…

“Wait, but your mother…”

“Walburga. Yeah, funnily enough, she’s the only one that isn’t part of that tradition. Though her name is still really fitting…”

“Ruler of the fortress. Old German, right?”

“Correct.” He nodded, taking a sip of his water. “Pandora didn’t lie, you do like etymology.”  

“It interests me enough, I’d say.”

“She also mentioned how you only talk in euphemisms.” He shrugged. “You’re aware that she has officially adopted you, right?”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. She has a habit of taking in strays. » He paused. « That was a joke. I am aware that my face does not make this very clear. »

« I get it. I am not prone to facial expressions myself. »

« Yeah. I had figured as much. »

Barty was finding this exchange weirdly pleasant. No forced smile, no emotional outburst, and quick-witted answers. When Pandora came back and found them talking, she squealed.

“I knew you would get along!”

“Yeah, Bartemius is not that bad.” Said Regulus, emphasizing the ‘Bartemius’ in a spirited tone.

“I’m flattered, Regulus.” He replied, also insisting on his name. “Thanks for adopting me, Pandora.”

This made her insanely happy, as she put her head on Regulus’ shoulder.

For once, Barty realized that he had truly meant what he’d said.

---

You’d think Barty had had enough weird shit happened to him in a day to last him a lifetime, but the universe was far from done with him.

The next hostage situation was staged at his locker, after his last class. Barty wanted nothing more than to go back home and breath. Regulus was standing next to him, as they had discovered that their lockers were close-by. They weren’t talking, which Barty appreciated. Sometimes, it feels like people are desperately trying to fill every single silence even when there is nothing to say. Regulus seemed to tolerate the absence of conversation just as much as Barty. But this calm was short-lived as, when they were about to make their way out, a girl appeared out of nowhere, putting herself right in front of them.

“Hi Barty.” She beamed, then, noticing Regulus, “Mini Black.”

“Don’t call me that.” He replied, sharply.

She didn’t seem to care about his comment, focusing all of her attention on Barty.

“Do I know you?”

“Mary, Mary McDonalds.”

“Right.”

“I saw you at the try-outs. You were very impressive.” She batted her eyelashes.

Well, you were very invisible.

He wasn’t being mean, he didn’t remember her at all. Not one bit.

“Can I, hum, help you with something?”

“I think you’re hot.” She shrugged, then moved a bit closer, “So, I wanted to ask you out.”

Ah. Whoa. Well. Wait…

What?

“That’s pretty straightforward.” He commented, wracking his brain to think of something to say.

“I like honesty.” Pause. “So, is that a yes, or no?”

Barty hated this. It wasn’t like him to be stunned, but then, that kind of shit wasn’t exactly a daily occurrence. He didn’t even know her for Christ’s sake!

“No.”

Yeah, alright. In his head, it sounded a little less dry but what was he supposed to say?

The girl looked surprised – ironic – but then, she simply pouted and said:

“I get it, maybe I should have had at least one conversation with you before.” She sighed, leaving Barty frozen in place.

Please don’t start crying, please don’t start crying.

Against all odds, she didn’t. She actually smiled and took out a sharpie and a piece of paper, tearing it up after she was done writing on it. She then handed it to him, seemingly unbothered.

“My number, in case you change your mind or…if you just want to hang out with me and my friends.” She looked at her watch and then, as if right on cue, waved them goodbye and walked away. “Bye Barty, bye Mini Black.”

It took him some time to recompose himself. Barty felt like he had been through all the stages of grief at once, that he had made the journey to hell and back. He was holding the piece of paper like a new born baby. He could go on an on with the metaphors.

“That is surely one of the worst exchanges I’ve ever witnessed, and I wasn’t even part of it so that says a lot.” Regulus stated.

“I am going to sue you for failure to render assistance to a person in danger.”

“As a rule of thumb, I do not get involved in anything relationship-related.” He paused. “Don’t sweat it though, that was a bet.”

“A bet? What do you mean a bet?”

“I heard her talk outside with the rest of my idiot brother’s friends. The blonde one told her that you would reject her and they bet on it.” He rolled his eyes. “Because everything is a joke in Sirius’ world.”

A bet. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with these people?

“Do I even know them?”

“Blonde one seemed to know you, at least. I can’t remember his name though. I think you play with him. ‘Tackle’ is a football term, right?”

Of fucking course.

“Evan Rosier.” Barty clenched his teeth. 

“That’s the one. So you do know him, at least.”

Barty glanced at the paper. He then got his phone out and started to type.

“What are you doing?”

“I am sending a text to Mary McDonalds. I wasn’t in my right mind when I said no.” He smirked.

Regulus frowned. Then, catching on, he exhaled deeply.

“I would normally discourage such a decision, but the pettiness in me can’t help but be drawn to this ridiculous masculine rivalry. Thus, being said…” Barty glanced up, questioning. “You do realize this means you have to go on a date with her?”

“Anything to mess with Rosier’s stupid head.”

Regulus nodded, emitting a short laugh.

“I really shouldn’t be that invested in this narrative.”

“Yet you are. You know, Regulus, I think it’s more than time to show much of a joke the world can be to these so-called pranksters.”

“I’m all for it, Bartemius. But you do still have to go on a date.”

Barty heard him, but he also didn’t. His brain was deprived of any thoughts.

Well, any thoughts that didn’t contain the word 'Rosier.'

Chapter Text

REMUS

Remus didn’t spend a lot of time questioning his sexuality and it didn’t take much for him to realize he was gay. Sure, he went through the classic stages of denial and doubts, still tried to kiss girls an all, but soon enough he became aware of the fact that it wasn’t - and never will be - for him. Because, soon enough, he met Sirius Black.

Sometimes, Remus is convinced that God created him solely for that reason. It’s very egotistical, but he liked to fantasize about it. Sirius Black, God’s own gift to Remus Lupin, a living proof of his homosexuality.

Crushing on Sirius Black was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, it seemed like the most natural course of event. It happened to a lot of people. Remus wasn’t mad about it.

What he was mad about was how his silly crush had evolved into falling in love. See, when he became friends with Sirius, Remus was convinced that this would die out, slowly. He’d tell him years later and they’d laugh about it.

"Yeah, I was madly attracted to you, at first."

"Aw Moony! Wait, am I ugly now ?"

Some shit like that. Because if he got close, he’d see the irks, the bad sides, the ugly, the not so glamorous part of him. He’d see him as Sirius, as a real person, not just a work of art to be admired from afar. This was supposed to be the plan.

Sirius Black was far from perfect. He acted like a child most of the time, he was petty, unable to hold a serious conversation for more than two seconds and had a habit of pushing all of his feelings inside, bottling it all up. He also chewed very loudly, stole his cigarettes, which then get him into trouble with James because Sirius wasn’t supposed to smoke. He had to be the center of attention all the goddamn time, which would sometimes make him say the most hurtful shit and get into all sorts of problems. Plus, he suffered from a rare case of emotional co-dependency.

Yes, Sirius Black was a giant mess, and Remus was bloody head over heels for him.

What he hated most about Sirius though was his habit of being naturally flirty with everyone. On the one hand, it was absolutely devastating to witness and, on the other hand, it made him utterly confused. He’d give him longing stares and compliments and gentle, tender gestures and Remus would lose himself completely. For a second, he’d forget about reality and feel like maybe, just maybe, Sirius actually liked him back, before being reminded that this was just Sirius’ normal behavior. It was too easy to forget that this was how he acted with everyone. Yet, Remus kept on falling for it. This was better than nothing, right?

So he settled for his role of Moony: the best friend, the smart one, the one who would always find ways to excuse Sirius’ foolishness, help him with certain subjects, listen to him ramble about girls or his little brother, his fucked-up family, football and James. Surely, this would all go away eventually. It had to.

“Outch, what the fuck Pete?” he protested as he got rid of the Maltesers his friend had just thrown at him.

“Been talking to you for five minutes, mate.”

“Moony, Moony, our little daydreamer. Wonder what it’s like in that sexy head of yours,” Sirius joked, giving him a wink.

Fuck me.

“Mostly complaints about you, actually,” Remus retorted. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far from the truth.

“Party at James’ on Friday night, after the game.”

“Even if you lose?”

“How dare you?” Sirius said, dramatically.

“We won’t. We have a solid team.” James intervened, in the most joyful tone.

“So long as Evan and Crouch keep it together,” Peter said.

“I’m sure they will. Practice was alright, and the friendly game went just fine,” James argued. “I do wish they would get along though, team spirit and all that, but for now, at least they do their job on the pitch…though they do it separately.”

“Everything works as long as they don’t play together,” Sirius snorted. “Definitely sounds like a foolproof long-term solution.”

“Like I said, it works for now. But I’ll figure something out. I just need to find a way to…coerce them into liking each other, make them hang out outside of football ya know? Except Barty always declines when I offer to do something in the group chat.”

Remus couldn’t help but smile. James cared so much about everyone he sometimes feared that his heart would explode. To him, it seemed borderline unhealthy, but James insisted that he loved to do it.

“Give it some time, James,” He responded. “I’m sure they’ll both get over it.”

“I just want to be a good captain, you know?”

“You’re already the best captain this team could ever dream of,” Peter said. “Like Moony said, give it some time.” Then, after some thoughts, he added, “We can try to invite to the party. Doesn’t hurt to try.”

They all agreed that it was a good enough idea, then went on to talk about other, insignificant stuff. Because they were young and, despite the occasional hardships, they were allowed to be carefree: Peter was allowed to binge watch shows all night instead of sleeping, James was allowed to have a second and third milkshake, Sirius was allowed to dress however he wanted and Remus was allowed to stare at him in wonder, pining in silence.

'Dinner at the Blacks'

BARTY

The dining room was full, in every sense of the word: full of furniture, each more sumptuous than the last, waiters who kept going back and forth between the kitchen and the table to place more dishes, fill glasses, and what constituted, by implicit standards, the official bourgeoisie of the town: the Mckinnons, the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Meadowes and, of course, the Crouches.

Conversations were flowing, yet Barty was convinced that complete silence would have made no difference. How could anyone talk so much and say so little? Fortunately, the attention was rarely on him. The adults talked amongst themselves, while the sons and daughters listened diligently, ready to answer if they were asked a question.

Dorcas Meadowes, daughter of Barty’s own football coach. Her mother had divorced and remarried a Malfoy, hence her presence at the dinner. Her father wasn’t part of this world, yet it looked like she was born into it. She was all grace and manners, her voice calm, every word glistening slowly from her lips. She was beautiful in the same way that a painting or a statue could be.

Marlene McKinnon, daughter of a lawyer and a real estate agent. She, on the other hand, didn’t seem to belong here. Barty had a hard time believing that this was the same energetic girl he had met at the coffeeshop, two weeks ago. She looked like she wanted to disappear, her cheeks stained in crimson every time someone talked to her. She didn’t hold herself with pride and assurance, like the rest of the people at the table.

Finally, there was Regulus Black. Over the course of Barty’s first week, Regulus and him had interacted three times in total: once at the cafeteria with Pandora, once at their lockers and, finally, once in a class they shared.

Originally, Barty had had no intention of befriending him, mainly out of spite against his parents. But it happened anyway.

When the Crouches had arrived for dinner, Regulus had nodded at him, politely, then verbally confirmed that yes, indeed, him and Bartemius were familiar with each other already. Barty’s step mom had looked so euphoric she might as well have seen Jesus in person.

At 9:30, it was time for the adults to retire to the living room. Playing poker, smoking cigars, or whatever. Barty honestly couldn’t both tell and care. He imagined a scene alike one from a Coppola’s movie, but the reality was probably more disappointing and duller than this. Still.

While this took place, Walburga Black had asked Regulus to show them the gardens (emphasis on the plural).

So here they were. The four of them. The Lestranges and Malfoys had kids too, but they were currently elsewhere, studying at some fancy universities. Plus, they were older. Barty also learned that they were both related to the Blacks, which made him wonder if this could actually be the case without it being a certain degree of incest.

“…and these are the stables,” Regulus announced.

“Are there any horses?” McKinnon asked, excitedly.

“What do you think?” Regulus retorted, his face blank of any emotion. He eventually added, sighing a bit. “Yes. There are horses. Would you like to see them?”

This seemed to relax McKinnon a bit, who nodded. They all followed Regulus as he opened the wooden door and turn on some lights. Soon enough, a few neighs cut through the silence of the night. Regulus moved to one of the stalls and clicked his tongue. A beautiful black stallion made his appearance, stretching out his head for Regulus to stroke it.

“Whoa. He’s so…,” McKinnon started, trying to think of the right adjective.

“Majestic,” Meadowes offered, with a smile towards the blonde girl. The latter returned it, slightly blushing. Right. “Can we pet him, Black?”

“Absolutely not. He’s mine,” Regulus responded, then gestured towards another stall. “You can pet that one over there. Her name is Dandelion.”

The two girls obliged, while Barty remained still, admiring the animal from afar: a white mare with black spots, like a Dalmatian. He stared at the scene for about a minute before he exited the place, deciding he had seen enough.

He positioned himself right beside the door, gazing at the sky. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps. Regulus’s. He came and stood beside him.

“I take it you’re not much of an equestrian, then?” Regulus asked, though it was purely rhetorical.

“Not much.” Pause. « What’s its name? Your horse ? »

« Pushkin. »

« Of course, » Barty snorted, lightly. “Why Dandelion, then? Shouldn’t it be named Dostoyevsky, or something?”

For a moment, Regulus remained still, not responding. Then, he turned his face towards him.

“My brother named him. It’s his horse. Well, it used to be anyway. Before he left.”

“Why?»

«Why did he choose such a stupid name?”

“Why did he leave.”

Regulus stiffened. For a while, Barty wasn’t sure that he’d actually get an answer, but at last, the young boy said:

“He couldn’t stand it here, just like our parents couldn’t stand him. He went to live with our oh so cool and relaxed uncle Alphard Black. I don’t see him anymore,” Regulus shrugged. “Except at school.”

“You don’t talk to him there?”

“Never. I wouldn’t dare to disturb my brother’s peaceful life now that he has escaped his terrible previous one.”

Anger was dripping through his tone. Barty didn’t know what to say. Should he express his sorrow for this situation? He couldn’t bring himself to say it. It felt unnatural. Barty wasn’t one for expressing empathy. He had shut himself off from feeling things long ago. But he wanted to say something. He understood Regulus’s anger. He had known betrayal himself so many times in his life. People can and will fail you again and again, that’s just how it is. It so happens that when it comes from your own family, the blow’s fatal. If the very first foundation you have is a disappointment, you’re fucked for the rest.

Barty could feel it. A minuscule pinch, telling him to comfort the boy next to him.

“But in my soul, foregoing pine / Becomes through time still stronger, like a wine,” Barty eventually answered. “I am more of a Sergueï Esenin guy myself, but Pushkin does have memorable lines.” He took another pause, debating with himself, but ended up adding: “Also, dandelions are amongst the ugliest flowers.”

Regulus looked at him, stunned. Then, he curled his lips, just a little bit, so fast you could have easily missed it.

“There would be no Esenin without Pushkin. Though he is brilliant,” Regulus admitted. “May I ask you something, Bartemius?”

Barty nodded, curious.

“How…How would you like it if we became regular acquaintances?”

“Is this your 19^th century Victorian way of saying you’d like for us to be friends?”

“Is this your usual, lazy, sarcastically way to say yes?”

“Maybe.” He looked at him. “Yes. Let’s be regular acquaintances, Regulus.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Nothing more was said. Time stood still between the two boys. They looked back at the sky, unaware of the ball of heat that had settled comfortably in both their chests at the same time.

MARLENE

She hated it. Absolutely, fucking, hated it. Why, oh why did she have to be attracted to women? WOMEN! The most beautiful earthly creatures! The little things about them, their attention to details, the way they smell, dress, get ready or unready, move, BREATHE.

She’d rather like boys. They were so easy to seduce. But, most of all, they didn’t intimidate her.

Unlike Dorcas Meadowes.

God. She was so far gone. She was barely able to speak as the girl merely stood next to her, gently petting the animal. Oh how Marlene suddenly dreamt of being a horse. Was that weird? See, the problem with Dorcas was that she was the sort of person that would enter a room and engulf everything in it. She wouldn’t even do it on purpose, no. It was effortless and happened against her will, which was even more annoying. Marlene would probably better off if she was a self-centered bitch. Though she’d probably still find her hot. Maybe even more so.

Ugh. Women.

“Are you alright?”

The voice startled her. She wasn’t aware that she’d been dissociating so hard. Way to look like a creep. Great.

“Yeah,” She replied, half looking at Dorcas. “Got lost in my own thoughts, I guess.”

“Well, if you wanna share them, I’d be happy to listen.” The girl answered with a smile.

“I-I,” She stumbled. “I was thinking about boys.”

Oh for fuck sake.

Dorcas arched her brows, surprised.

“Boys?”

“Yeah but like…not like that, you know? Like I don’t want them to…Like…Fuck” She sighed. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Nothing embarrassing about being horny, you know?” Dorcas shrugged. “I get horny all the time to be fair.”

Marlene blushed. This was too much. She might start hyperventilating any second from now.

“Ye-yeah?”

“Course. You don’t?”

“I mean I…I suppose.”

Dorcas looked at her with a smile. She seemed to be thinking hard about something, debating in her head. But eventually, she just shook her head.

“You’re really cute when you get flustered, Marlene.” She gave the horse one last stroke. “We should probably get back now. Come on.”

As she stared at the back of her, now marching towards the manor, Marlene couldn’t help but think.

Had this been the moment?

Chapter Text

EVAN

Do you know how, sometimes, you feel something so deeply that it eventually affects you physically ?

That’s how it was for Evan this week. He was both so excited and stressed about the game on Friday it made him want to puke. Not in a metaphorical way, like he could actually sense that his bowels  were reproducing a K-pop choreography. Could you blame him ? There was so much at stake. This was the first game of the season, for a start, which would – despite James’ sayings – define the rest of the year for him as a player. More specifically, as a striker. Even more specifically, as the other striker on the team. As a league, they will face the Norton Rovers. But as Evan, he will face Barty Crouch.

As decided by their coach, the main striker, Steve Larson, will stay the entire game. Apart from this, Evan will play the first half of the game and Barty will replace him afterwards. In other words, Evan will have exactly 45 minutes to prove himself.

45 minutes.

So many things could happen. Maybe there won’t be any opportunities for him to score, if their opposants have a strong defense. He could miss his shot. Truth is, Evan could be at his very best yet still have no way of showing it.

Of course, this didn’t stop him from abusing the fuck out of his body in preparation for the game. So much so, in fact, that he had literally been grounded by his mother after school. Seeing how tired he was and, mainly, the fact that he had almost passed out, she forbade him from going on yet another evening run.

“This is ridiculous,” Evan argued, as his mom was handing him a plate of pasta.

“What’s ridiculous, son, is you destroying your health over a football game,” his father retorted. “The first game of the season, mind you.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “You’re basically punishing me for caring about something?”

“Now, now, don’t be a smartass,” his father answered.

“It’s good that you care, love, but you don’t need to put that much pressure on yourself,” his mom commented, with a warm smile. “We’ll be cheering you on from the bleachers anyway, no matter the outcome.”

“But don’t embarrass me, I’m coming too.” His little sister intervened, with her usual sarcastic tone.

“You’ll be too busy simping over James Potter anyway,” Evan said, sticking out his tongue.

“Oh my god shut up that’s literally so not true.”

They all laughed at her being flustered. Eventually, Evan allowed himself to relax enough to get himself a second plate. 

BARTY

Barty had found himself in quite the predicament. Ever since he had decided to give his number to Mary McDonald, actually. A decision so stupid on so many levels. All for what? So that Rosier could lose a bet? Barty hadn’t thought this through at all. Now, he actually needed to taker her out on a date.

Yes, he could just let her down, honestly. Should, definitely. But wouldn’t this prove Rosier’s point?

Stupid Rosier.

No, he had to go on at least one date. Then, he’ll kindly let her down. Simple enough.

Except he really did not want to take her on a date. It’ll be awkward until it ends. Also, when does a date end exactly? How is one supposed to tell? He had to think of a place and time that would mitigate his sufferings.

Barty sighed, contemplating the same text he had been contemplating all day:

Mary: So…our date?

“You should take her on a romantic picnic,” Pandora beamed, oblivious. They were both sat in their English class, Regulus a couple of desks behind, next to his class neighbour, Lily Evans. They were all filling a pop quiz on A Single man. Barty peaked his head just in time to intercept Mr Tonk’s “focus and keep quiet” glance. He turned back to the blonde and said, whispering:

“I told you; I’m not actually trying to date her.”

“But you should still plan something nice!” she pouted.

“Obviously, I’m not going to take her to a crackhouse, but I’m also not going to act like I’m in a Jane Austen novel, ‘Dora.”

“Pity. You’re so Mr Darcy coded though.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

She looked at him, intensely. This was probably the most unsettling thing about Pandora: her stare. Most people shy away from eye contact but her? She would x-ray the fuck out of your soul.

“Stop that,” Barty mumbled.

“You know, Bartemius, I can’t wait for the day that I get to see you fall in love.”

This was such a ridiculous statement that he didn’t even bother to answer. Falling in love? Yeah, right. Falling in love required a certain set of emotions, and Barty’s was very limited: anger, annoyance, pride and a mild sense of appreciation. Most of all, it called for a certain openness: to the world, to people and everything around you. Pandora was the embodiment of this. It seemed to him that she was navigating through life with her arms wide open, ready to welcome whatever creature, however small or futile, into them. She was the type of people that love chose to struck. Not him. Well, and also not Regulus.

Regulus Black, though Barty would never admit this to his face, had became his biggest source of comfort. For all of his big talks about the joy of solitude, it felt ridiculously nice to be with someone that got him. Like, truly got him. His day-to-day routines hadn't changed, except that now, most of the times, Regulus was part of them: studying at the library, browsing book shops, and even during his runs. Well, Regulus never actually ran with him, but he would wait for him at a café so that they could have breakfast together. Alternatively, they would also spend time at each other’s houses. Barty especially loved to stay at Regulus’, as his manor quite literally displayed everything you could ever dream of. Among which, a huge home cinema. Regulus knew a lot about movies and they'd have private screenings of a bunch of pretentious ones. Some of them were interesting enough, some all-together awful, but, in any case, they’d always have something to say about them. Conversation just flowed naturally between the two boys.

The bell rang. Startled out of his thoughts, Barty quickly recovered his stuff and followed Pandora and Regulus out of class.

“Mr Crouch!” He stopped in his tracks, turning to see his teacher smiling. “I wanted to wish good luck on the game, this Friday.”

Right.

“Hm, thank you, Sir,” he managed, brows furrowed.

“You got it. I’ll see you there. »

---

“You’re loud.”

They were at Regulus’ place, yet again. For the past ten minutes, Barty had been rereading the same sentence. It might as well have been Chinese. He couldn’t focus to save his life.

“What?” he managed, looking at his friend. The latter made no effort to move nor to divert his attention towards him. He kept his gaze down, on his book.

“You ruminating,” he said. “It’s very loud and unnerving. Pray, do tell, what’s on your mind?”

“I can never quite tell the difference between you talking like your usual aristocratic self and you taking the piss.”

This time, Regulus crept up, the tiniest smirk dancing on his lips.

“Taking the piss now, are we? Look at you, a true British.”

“Well, that’s what hanging out in locker rooms will do to you. I was bound to pick up on some slang.”

“Fair enough,” he closed his book with a loud thud. “Spill, Bartemius. »

Barty sighed. This was fairly new to him: communicating stuff.

“M’worried about the game. »

« Oh, right. There’s that too. I thought you were thinking of your date with MacDonalds.”

“This has been on my mind too, but I had managed to escape it for an instant. Thank you. I’ll just go and drown myself now.”

Regulus snickered. « I’d apologize if I didn’t know for a fact that this is but an empty threat,” he propped himself up on his elbows, stretching his neck. “Wouldn’t want to give all your playtime to Evan Rosier, right?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Barty glared at the boy. “You suck at this. You’ve just reminded me of everything that’s annoying me in the span of two minutes.”

“I don’t think you need my help or anyone else’s to recall Rosier’s existence.”

“I’m-I,” Barty clenched his teeth, sighing. “It’s just…I have to be better than him. We’re not going to play this half and half bullshit all year, I know it. The coach is just waiting for an excuse to kick one of us out of the team, and it won’t be me. My father is literally breathing down my neck about this Friday.”

There was a slight pause, where Regulus just looked at him, something close to empathy on his face. You could never really tell. 

“The way I see it, and I don’t know shit about football,” Regulus started, scratching his chin in a sign of deep reflection. “You have to keep your temper. As far as abilities go, you know what you’re doing. But your anger issues? That’s your Achille’s heel. Your hubris, if you will. Find a way to distract yourself from them, and you should be alright. It’s not like the both of you are going to be on the field at the same time anyway,” he shrugged, “Plus, even if you end up disappointing your father, a simple good word from me and your stepmom will be attending mother’s next garden party. Should smooth things out."

Which, fair enough. Honestly? Getting close to Regulus Black had done wonders for his relationship with his parents. Still, if he chocked on Friday, all the invitations in the world won’t tame his father’s anger. Not that he cared, really. He just wanted to avoid it.

“Right. You and Pandora are still coming?”

“To the game? Well, I’d rather not be forced to stare at my stupid brother for so long, but she insisted. So, yes. I’ll be gracefully cheering from the bleachers. We can come back and watch a movie here afterwards?”

“Pandora can’t stay still for more than two minutes," Barty smirked." How do you expect her to deal with one of your three hours long, Eastern European, black and white shit?"

“Rude," Regulus smacked his lips. "But she won’t be joining us anyway. She said Lovegood invited her to a party. Potter’s.”

“Xenophilius?”

“That one.”

“Huh. He seems so…bland.”

“Well, a lot of people are, in contrast to Pandora,” Regulus shrugged. “But he seems okay enough. Definitely less stupid than the rest of the guys on your team. Anyway, everyone’s been talking about that party so…he just asked Pandora and she said yes.”

“Yeah. Potter’s been yapping about it non-stop too. He’s always insisting that I come to these bonding stuff, for team spirit. Stupid, really.”

“It shows that he cares. It’s…kind of sweet,” Regulus blurted, though he quickly added, “I mean, some people would probably find it sweet.”

The entire team – hell, probably the entire school – stuck in James Potter’s house? What a nightmare. The mere thought of being enclosed in a place with Rosier gave him shivers. His obnoxious laugh would bounce off the walls and make him deaf. To think he was stuck with a date because of him. Jesus.

“Shit,” Barty gasped. “This is perfect, actually.”

“Mh?”

“The party. I’m going to take MacDonalds there as my date. Rosier sees us, I win, I find a way to escape the whole shit and bam: I’m rid of all of my torments.”

“There are so many ways that this could go wrong. I can’t wait to hear about it,” Regulus retorted. Then, seeing the weird expression on Barty’s face, “What? Oh,” he shook his head, “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll tell Pandora that I’m going too, and we both know how she’ll feel when she’ll learn that you’re staying behind, all alone, in this cold, cold place…”

“This is evil. Why would you even want me there?”

“Support? Collateral? Witness? You’ll figure something out. But you’re not getting off.” Barty gave him his most mischievious smile, “So, what do you say?"

“Marvelous. Just, marvelous.” The boy answered, his voice full of sarcasm, as Barty had already taken out his phone to text Mary.

EVAN

Thursday. Evan was going through the last 24 hours that separated him from his fate. Yes, again, he wished that he was exaggerating. But it wasn't all bad; at least this week the universe had decided to give him a break from the menace that was Barty Crouch.

...until they were outside training one last time before the game.

To my credit, everyone was tense. James wasn't smiling as much as usual, Peter was being silent and even Sirius seemed to have toned down on his sassy self. Evan could also tell that he wasn't the only player to be tired, if the dark circles of some of the boys were proof enough. Some, including Barty Crouch. Although it seemed to him that his eyes always looked like that: dark, piercing, circled. Not that he was paying that much attention to them, but as he had often found himself on the other side of the daggers that Crouch would shoot...you see.

All of this to say that the atmosphere was already at risk before anything had happened.

Then, something happened.

It was stupid, really. They were just doing a couple runs, the field still wet from that morning’s rain. Someone was bound to slip and fall, and that someone just so happened to be Barty. Evan had laughed, a bit more than necessary.

“Cut it out, Evan,” James had yelled, his tone quite impatient, “Go help him up.”

Being reprimanded by James was the most humbling experience known to man. Evan had immediately regretted it and so, sheepish, had proceeded to trot towards Barty and extended his hand to get him back on his feet. Simple enough.

Except that, next thing he knew, he was also on the ground. Barty had yanked his hand and dragged him down beside him, face first into the mud.

“What the fuck!” Evan exclaimed, rubbing his face in complete shock. “What is wrong with you?”

“Not so funny now, is it?” Barty spat, getting on one of his knees in order to get up. Evan really should have let him do just that. Get up, walk away. It’s just mud and he shouldn’t have laughed in the first place. Nevertheless, without his being able to stop himself or even realize it, his hand had seized one of Barty's ankles and sent him tumbling again.

What followed was nothing less than a ridiculous contest to see who could get up before the other could catch them, a contest that neither he nor Barty won, as they were separated by the rest of their team-mates before it happened.

“We'll leave it at that for training. Thank you all very much. Go and wash up. You too, James,” said the Coach with a voice that made everyone gulp. “GO! Rosier, Crouch, you stay put.”

From afar, Evan saw Peter give him a “text me” sign before disappearing with the rest of the players. He could feel Barty’s panting breath next to him, though he did not say a word, probably knowing better than to fuck with their coach’s patience now.

“Seeing as the game is tomorrow, I can’t possibly suspend neither of you,” coach started, his teeth clenched. “Don’t consider yourself lucky though. This does not mean that I’m letting you go like that. Ten laps, NOW.”

Okay. Ouch. But this was such a tame punishment, considering they were used to that sort of exercise at training anyway. Apart from the fact that they were both very tired, this was no big deal. With a sigh, Evan began his run, making sure to stay at a certain distance from Barty. As soon as they were done, they both instinctively started to walk towards the locker-room when they were interrupted by their coach.

“Now, now. Did I say I was done?” A rhetorical question, really. He eyed them up and down, making a tssk sound. “There is a pile filled with dirty gears next to the showers. You’re going to take that pile in your precious little hands, put it in the washing machine, then dryer and, finally, fold it all nice and clean for me. No one is leaving till it’s finished, understand? I don’t care about your parents, dinner or bedtime.”

“Come on, Coach,” Evan started, at the exact same time that Barty went “Sir”

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING MORE, FROM ANY OF YOU,” he shouted, pointing his index towards the lockers. “Now, GO.”

“Can we at least take a shower before?” Barty asked, fighting – Evan could tell – the urge to roll his eyes.

“Of course, you may,” coach said, smirking, “AFTER you’re done.”

“Please,” Evan begged, finding himself agreeing with Barty.

But there was no convincing him. Dejected, Evan began to drag his muddy feet, knees, face and whole body to the changing rooms, Barty on his back.

“Jesus, this smells like an actual dead corpse.” Evan declared as soon as they were faced with said dirty pile. Barty didn’t say anything but the way he scrunched up his nose was enough confirmation. This was absolutely disgusting.

“Right,” Evan began, rubbing his eyelids, “Well, we have to separate all that’s white from the rest, first.” Without any response from Barty, he felt the need to add: “Otherwise it’s going to be stained with…”

“I’m not stupid.” Barty interrupted him.

“Could have fooled me, honestly,” Evan replied, dryly, “You do look very stupid right now though, with mud on your nose. Like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer turned cheap hooker.”

“This is the most ridiculous comparison I’ve ever heard,” Barty said, wiping his nose with the end of his sleeve. As Evan snorted, he let out an almost childlike “what.”

“It’s still there. Can’t take the hooker out of you that easily, Crouch,” then, as he watched him struggle, “Jesus, do you actually need help?”

“If you so much as graze me, I’ll throw up on you.”

Evan couldn’t help it. The situation was just surreal, everything about this was so alien. He was stuck doing laundry with Barty Crouch on a Thursday night, his face itching from drying mud. Maybe he was just very tired and it made him slightly high, but he busted out laughing. Like, full-on, mouth-opened and eyes prickling laughing.

“Why on earth are you laughing right now?” Barty groaned, confused.

“Come on man, even you have to admit that this situation is pretty funny.”

Barty blinked, looking at him for what felt like eternity. Eventually, he shrugged, picked up the pile of whites, and said:

“I guess…there is something quite absurd about this predicament,” he turned his back on Evan, “I’ll go put this in the washing machine.”

---

Evan was staring at the little screen, watching the remaining time of the washing cycle. They were already done with the whites which Barty was currently folding. Or, rather, trying to fold. In reality, it looked like a complete mess. Evan couldn’t help but smile, seeing how frustrated he got over it. This was quite the sight: Barty Crouch struggling at something.

“Alright, scooch over,” Evan finally said, kneeling at the boy’s side. “This is not gonna cut it with the coach and I don’t want to spend the night here.”

Barty let out an exasperated sigh, but he allowed the blond to take place next to him.

“Have it your way then, I don’t care.”

“Wait,” Evan leaned towards him, scanning his face. “Are you pouting?”

Barty scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Oh my god you’re pouting,” Evan snorted. “You’re pouting about folding clothes!”

“Can you stop now?”

Evan raised his arms in remission, forcing himself to stop smiling. “Alright, alright, sorry,” he shook his head. “I just never thought I’d live long enough to see you not excel at something.” He took one of the shorts and placed it in front of them. “It’s not rocket science, I’ll show you.” Pause. “Your mom is way more chill than mine cause she forced me to learn how to do laundry very early on.”

Barty flinched, slightly retracting himself. “Well, my mother is dead so yeah, I guess that’s as chill as it gets.”

Evan froze. Shit, just when he thought they were doing okay on the ‘not being at each other’s throats’ front. He bit his cheek, awkwardly raising his head. “I’m sor-“

“Let’s not, please,” Barty interrupted him. “Now, can you start over and teach me how to do this shit?”

It took them about 10 minutes to fold everything, as Barty kept messing it up – mainly due to his impatience – and then, by that time, the other washing cycle was done. Once dried, Evan let Barty do the folding to see the offspring of his crash course. He did more than alright and though he tried to hide it, Evan could see the pride on his face.

“Shit,” Evan felt his phone buzzed and discovered that he had more than a few missed calls from his mom. “Forgot to call home to tell them I was stuck here. Shit.” No wonder they were worried. Evan was supposed to be eating dinner right now.

“You can go, if you want to,” Barty said, without looking at him. “I’ll finish the rest.”

To say that Evan was taken aback was an understatement. This was so…nice?

“Ar-are you sure?”

“No one is waiting on me. Go.” Barty rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it. Go.”

“Right, right” Evan picked up his stuff before putting on his jacket. He then stood there, in silence, contemplating the boy in front of him. “Well, hum, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Pause. Evan shrugged and went to exit the room. At the very last moment, he turned around.

“Barty?”

The boy’s head snapped up. He looked at him with furrowed brows. Against his better judgement, Evan gave him a smile. Granted, a very small one, but still. He expected Barty to tell him to fuck off, but he remained silent. Honestly, he even seemed a bit flustered. Evan was tempted to make the moment last, but he didn't want to spoil it either. All good things must come to an end, and he knew that as soon as Barty had recomposed himself, he would...well, be Barty again. Might as well enjoy this fleeting miracle of a moment.

“Good night,” he simply said, this time disappearing for real. Unfortunately, he was way out of sight when a low and timid voice cut through the silence.

“Good night, Evan.”

Day of the game

JAMES

Everybody wants you, everybody wants your love, I’d just like to make you mine all mine

 James did a little pirouette, in time with the start of the chorus, thrusting his hips sideways as he grabbed his toothbrush, acting like it was a mic.

“Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, baby give it up,” he belted out, looking straight into the mirror, as if serenading to it. “Give it up, baaaaaaaby give it up!”

He was absolutely buzzing with excitement. In a couple of hours, he’d be on the pitch waving to the crowd and clapping his team-mates on the back, waiting for the game to kick off. He knew he ought to be consumed with anxiety, but he really wasn’t. See, James wasn’t wired for negative thoughts and feelings. When bad stuff popped up, he’d always manage to turn it into a, if not positive, less annoying thing. Anger? Merely mild frustration. Sadness? Fleeting melancholia. Following that logic, stress could easily be reframed as pure excitement for him.

He spat out the rest of his toothpaste before swallowing some mouthwash, smiled at his reflection, then made his way down to the kitchen. His mother was already sat at the table, newspaper in hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other, while his father worked behind the stove - scrambled eggs, by the smell of it. His father loved to cook and, thus, tended to be in charge of preparing the meals. James thought that was cool. To be honest, it always seemed normal to him, until he discovered that most of the time, women did the cooking at his friends' houses. Maybe they really liked it, but the systemic pattern of it made him doubt it. Here though, tasks were divided. It wasn't even a question of gender, just common sense and respect. His father cooks but his mother does the washing every Sunday, his father goes grocery shopping but his mother deals with the bills, and so on. To James, his parents were the prototypical example of what a healthy, balanced relationship could look like. He was very much aware of his luck; not all families are like his. Just look at Sirius'. Although, that’s almost an extreme case. But yeah, James was grateful for his life every day.

“Morning!” he chirped, immediately pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Well, someone’s in a particularly joyous mood today,” Effie commented, looking up from her paper.

“Just very excited about tonight is all,” James shrugged. “Winning plus getting to celebrate the victory with all of your mates will do that to you.”

“I like the confidence, son,” Fleamont put a whole plate of scrambled eggs on the table. “Though, remember that…”

“Yes,” he rolled his eyes playfully. “I will lock the door to your study.”

“Thank you,” his father replied. “Don’t want it to turn into a lover’s nest.”

“Well, not for some random teenagers anyway,” his mom gave a longing glance to her husband. James immediately pulled a face, very much disgusted by their endeavors, which had them both snorting. They were almost too in love with each other, at times. They chatted for some more as James engulfed his delicious, protein-full breakfast, before he eventually got up. He kissed them both on the cheeks, grabbed his keys and took out his car to his first stop on his journey to school: Remus.

----

They parked right out front, the whole gang exiting the vehicle. They had about fifteen minutes before class, just enough for Remus to enjoy one last smoke. Peter was sporting a particularly funky pair of sunglasses, one that Sirius had spent the entire ride hating on.

“They’re my good luck glasses”, Peter reiterated. “RIP to the bitches that are dying to be me.”

“What’s with the plural? I can only see one bitch here,” Remus smirked, looking at Sirius who gasped in absolute shock.

James smiled as they started bickering. What a pair. People would mention James and Sirius’ relationship all the time which, to a certain extent, made absolute sense. Sirius was everything to him, one of his everything. His brother from another mother, his best friend, his platonic soulmate, his ride or die, you name it. However, their relationship was so intense, so blinding, that it made people miss another magical duo: Sirius and Remus. You had to really stop for a while to notice it but once you did, you couldn’t help but be enthralled by it.

Sirius and James’ affection towards each other was blatant and in your face: jumping into each other’s arms and jokingly calling themselves husband and wife, giving the other sweet nicknames and all. In contrast, Remus and Sirius’ bond was one of subtleties and delicate details: Sirius picking out Remus’ favorite soda and have it ready for him at lunch, Remus taking out pickles from his sandwich but keeping them on the side for Sirius instead of throwing them out, Sirius carrying an extra phone charger because Remus would always forget to charge his phone at night, or always siding with Remus’ opinion when they had movie nights, Remus having none of Sirius’ shit when he was in a mood (James gave in to every single one of his whims), and so on.

When it came to Remus, Sirius was a completely different person. James couldn’t name a single other person that was given the same treatment, past girlfriends included. With him, towards him, Sirius was gentle, calm. Stuff that he otherwise couldn’t be bothered with, he tolerated them. He could manage to sit in silence, diligently studying. He learned to apologize more and accept the fact that he wasn’t always right.

James used to be very jealous of what they had. He knew that he was suffering from a serious case of possessiveness when it came to his loved ones, especially with Sirius. But he quickly got over it when he realized that there was no point in being jealous of a relationship so different than what he and Sirius had. Just like they knew no comparison, Sirius and Remus didn’t either. Both relationships were their own, special, magical thing. Remus could bring certain qualities to Sirius that he couldn’t, and vice-versa. Most importantly, at the end of the day, he made Sirius happy.

“Well, better head off,” James intervened, looking at his watch. « Seeing you all at lunch? »

“Yup,” Peter answered. « Me and Evie have free period, teacher’s sick. We’ll get a table. »

“Man, lucky you! I’d kill to skip,”Sirius groaned.

“Don’t even think about it,” James said.

“Alright mom, Jesus,” Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Come on you ungrateful brat,” Remus ruffled his hair, earning yet another gasp. James smiled, hooking his arm around Sirius’ neck as they all made their way to class, leaving Peter and Evan behind.

EVAN

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself, mate,” Peter noted as they were chilling at the cafeteria.

“I might as well,” Evan groaned in response. “I can’t wait for this day to be over.”

“Evie, you know there is no way in hell we’re going to lose tonight. Team’s as good as it could ever be,” Peter kept typing on his phone. “Plus, you and Crouch are besties now.”

“Now, now,” Evan corrected. “We’ve managed to not kill each other.”

“Baby steps man,” Still typing. “Friends that do laundry together stay together.”

“Right,” he bit his lips. “Who are you texting like that? You’ve been glued to your phone all morning.”

At this, Peter finally looked up, absolutely beaming. “Got a date tonight. Well, I have planned to hang out with this girl at the party at least, but it seems like a date. We’ve been flirting back and forth.”

“Pete you shite!” Evan exclaimed, eyebrows raised. “Why didn’t you say anything? Who is it?”

“Your mom.”

“I’ll kill you.”

He laughed. “Sorry. I guess I just didn’t want to jinx it or get too excited over nothing. But yeah…” He shrugged. “Name’s Sybill Trelawney.”

“Wait, blondie with the curls and the huge glasses?”

“Yup’,” he confirmed with a ‘p’ sound. “We were paired up for a project in bio and just hit it off. She’s really funny, like proper cracks me up.”

“Damn,” Evan simply answered, still surprised. “Never talked to her but she sounds nice. Happy for you man.”

“Well, as I’ve said,” Peter half-smiled, looking almost shy. “Nothing’s like, confirmed.”

“There is no universe where she’ll be able to resist your charming dance moves.”

He laughed. “I do have some crazy Latina hips for a white boy.”

“That you do,” Evan confirmed with a grin.

« YO, ROSIER! »

Both boys jumped, startled by the voice coming out of nowhere, a voice belonging to none other than Mary McDonalds. It was nearly lunch time.

« Jesus, » Peter said. « Don’t creep up on people like that. My fragile heart. »

« Yeah, yeah, » she brushed it off, eyes solely focused on Evan. She seemed to be waiting for something, an ominous smile tucked on her lips. Furrowing his brows, Evan mouthed a ‘what’ that had her smiling even more. 

« I.have.got.a.date, » she said, carefully pronouncing each syllable.

« Congrats? » Evan was even more confused. Mary went on lots of dates but she never insisted on talking to Evan about it. Not with that much excitement anyway. « Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you but… »

« God, you can be so thick sometimes, » she rolled her eyes. « It’s not the what that matters, it’s the WHO, » she leaned in, pretending to tell him a secret, though Peter could very well hear her too. « Barty Crouch. »

Oh.

For some reason, Evan couldn’t help but feel slightly uneasy. Probably just looking out for her friend; Mary had a tough skin but Barty was an absolute menace, especially verbally speaking. His words could kill. Still, he ignored the discomfort in his chest to mutter a simple: « Where is he taking you? »

« Nothing special, we’re just going to the party together. »

« Looks like everyone’s got a date then, » Peter noted. « I’m going with Sybill Trelawney. »

As Mary and him began to talk about her, Evan completely phased out from the conversation. Barty Crouch was coming to James’ party. The same Barty Crouch that had refused every single previous invitation to hang out. This made no sense at all. Except if he was really head over heels for Mary but even then, wouldn’t he prefer to be somewhere more intimate with her? Of course, a crush can change someone’s behavior drastically but Barty Crouch? Over what, a single interaction?

I am an asshole. Maybe they perfectly clicked off. Mary’s pretty cool. She’s also pretty, period. But…

Maybe Barty Crouch is changing. After all, he was almost sorta nice to him, right? People can evolve.

Christ. Evan was way too invested. Even when they weren’t actively fighting, the guy was on his mind. Specifically, since they shared that moment in the locker room. What’s that quote, again?

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.

Something like that. He heard James say it, many times. He could psychoanalyze Barty for hours on end but, the truth is, he knew close to nothing about the guy. Well, apart from the fact that is mom was dead, which is no small matter. It’s a huge deal. How would Evan behave if his passed away? Would he change? Obviously. But to what extent? Could people truly be born bad? That’d be depressing. Yet, if this wasn't true, how much of their behavior could be explained and, moreover, excused? Like yeah, serial killers tend to have had a fucked up childhood but…

Alright now. Let’s avoid an analogy between Barty Crouch and Ted Bundy, Evan.

So much food for thoughts. Jesus. That guy was a full-on philosophy class, or a classic detective story. Fuck it, he’ll try to engage with him at the party, give him the benefit of the doubt and bury the hatchet, even.

Suddenly, Evan caught himself being just as stressed – if not more – about the party than about the game.

REGULUS

Regulus was unconditionnally appalled, aghast, distraught and ashamed whiles fantasizing about the possibility of digging a hole in the bleachers and disappearing into it, potentially forever.

Finding himself watching a football match was already stressing him out as a concept, but to actually experience it? Nothing could have prepared him for this public humiliation. Don’t believe it? Let’s break things down:

Pandora, who he absolutely adored, don't get him wrong, had made a banner. This wasn’t your usual, conventional banner. Ney ney. Rather, the most colorful and obnoxious one possible. It read, in all caps, “GO LIONS” with yellow letters on a burning red background. Now, see, because of its size, the damn thing needed more than one person to hold it. So there he was, like some sort of groupie, stuck up against strangers shouting chants of encouragement to the team which included his brother.

You couldn't miss him. Sirius lived for the attention, basked in it unashamedly and so he was naturally the first to greet the crowd, sending kisses and offering his best publicity smile to them. He hadn’t noticed him, as Regulus had meticulously pushed his beanie down to the point of almost covering his eyes. In addition, he was sporting a scarf which he had unnecessarily tied up way too high. He’d rather suffocate.

Diverting his gaze from his brother – there is only so much sighing that you can do -, he began to scan the rest of the players. Instinctively, his gaze fell on Barty first. He was as pale as a Victorian child. For a guy that was usually very still, Regulus could see him shuffle, touching hir hair, warming up his ankles in slow circles, then back to his hair again. He must have felt Regulus’ look because he suddenly perked up, immediately noticing him. With a tentative smile, Regulus gave him an awkward thumbs-up which had the boy nodding in response. Then, the younger Black turned his attention to Pandora’s crush, Xenophilius Lovegood. His hair was so blonde it was closer to white, eyebrows barely apparent and almond-shaped eyes – “so blue,” to quote a certain someone. The guy was like a Swedish posterchild. But he was attractive enough. Not his type, but hey. Few people were anyway. Every two seconds, Lovegood was taking swift glances at Pandora, a very pleased expression on his face.

Regulus didn’t linger on the rest of the players. He recognized some of them from shared classes, but that was about it. The next one to actually catch his attention was Evan Rosier.

Up until he met Barty, he was absolutely oblivious to Rosier’s existence. Usually, he tended to block out his perception when it came to his brother’s closest friends. He kinda saw them as one big herd.

Rosier had semi-long hair, with subtle curls, a colour dancing between blond and light brown. A toned down version of River Phoenix, if you will. He was rather skinny but still had a large frame. He was also significantly taller than the other guys on the team. Except for…

There he was; slapping the back of each of his team-mates, in order, until he ended next to Sirius, pulling him in a strong embrace. He then turned his face to the crow, waving energetically with the biggest grin known to human kind.

James Potter.

Sirius’ other half, quite literally. Yet, they were so different. Of course, they both had the whole ‘talks to/knows everyone and fits everywhere’ thing down to a t, but James seemed more aware of the world around him. You didn’t even have to know him to realize how much he cared; about his teammates, his friends, probably about the littlest flies too. The most annoying part of this was that there wasn’t anything performative about his skit. He had always been like that, from the very first day that Regulus had met him.

Nope, absolutely not. I’m not going down fucking memory lane right now, thank you very much.

He hated this. Seeing James was like getting a glimpse into a former, happier past, meeting with the ghost of his once good relationship with his brother. It wasn’t his fault but, somehow, James was a time portal for Regulus. A painful time portal, with stupid hair sticking out in all directions and glasses that were never perfectly straight yet it still looked good. He always does.

“Behold, behold, the red and gold,” Pandora chanted, nudging him to join her. Against his better judgement, Regulus was suddenly thankful to politely hum along. Anything to distract him at this point, really. The universe seemed inclined to give him a break too, for a couple of minutes later, he was greeted by Lily Evans. She briefly hugged Pandora and nodded in his direction, with a gentle smile. Regulus didn’t mind her, which is quite something already, according to his standards. She was sat next to him in Mr Tonks’ advanced literary class, had strong opinions about pretty much everything and, though he often disagreed with them, he’d always find their exchanges rather stimulating.

“Are you going to the party later?” she asked, tilting her head though the question was solely aimed at Pandora. Couldn’t blame her though. Pandora nodded, giving Regulus a sweet glance. “We are!”

Lily raised her eyebrows, stunned by this answer. Again, couldn’t blame her. Regulus had probably been seen at one party, tops. However, past her initial surprise, she recovered her usual, friendly face. “Well, I’ll see you there then.”

A solid interaction, kept to its minimum. 10/10.

“LILS, WAIT FOR US!”

Mary McDonalds’ approaching figure made him groan internally. -10/10, within seconds. The girl came up to them, closely followed by McKinnon and Lupin, another one of his brother’s sidekicks.

“Hi ‘Dora!” McDonalds exclaimed. “Baby Black.”

Regulus stood still. He didn’t have the energy to protest the nickname AGAIN. He settled on a dry look, which had Pandora whispered to him, telepathically, “be nice,” or something like that. Funnily enough, he was being nice. Overly so, actually. Considering the fact that he could bluntly confess that Barty didn’t give two shits about her or their ‘date’, this was angelic behavior.

“Well, see you later then!” Lily chirped in, taking Mary by her arm, McKinnon already on her way to find some seats. Remus Lupin was last to leave, without saying a word. However, when he brushed past Regulus, he gave him the very much definition of a side-eye.

What the fuck?

BARTY

"Alright, listen up guys," James shouted, as they all formed a circle with the coach. "First game of the season, give it your all! In a safe, reasonable way, obviously."

"That's right," coach commented, a very serious face on. "I know you all think this is going to be a walk in the park and yes, it probably won't be the most challenging game of the year. But that's not excuse to slack off or act like a fool! I expect nothing but the best. Now, let's kick it. GO LIONS!"

"GO LIONS!" They all repeated back. 

Barty took a step back, slowly exhaling. When he turned to walk over to the bench, he was met by someone's else chest. 

"Oop, sorry," Evan said, putting both of his hands on Barty's shoulders to steady him. It lasted but a second but it had Barty jerked back. He humpfed, nodding in the blonde's direction. "Keep that for the opponents, yeah?"

Evan blinked. "Did you...make a joke?" Barty shrugged, flustered. He had, hadn't he? "Just go and be like, not awful alright?" He replied, not waiting for an answer as he joined their coach on the sidelines. He sat down, water bottle in hand. As he brought the drink up to his mouth, he came face to face with Evan Rosier's smiling gaze, still staring at him from the very position he had just left him in. The blond shook his head and went to take his position on the pitch.

The whistle blew.

---

This was torture. Barty couldn’t stand still. He kept fidgeting, alternating between looking at the countdown, ruffling his hair and manically drinking from his water bottle. He needed to pee real bad but he was afraid to miss some big action. So yeah, he’d rather contract cystitis, thank you. Barty was an expert at dissociating from his body when his mind was racing.

They were about 30 minutes in, 15 minutes left till half-time and about 20 minutes before he’d finally get to play. So far, they were still 0-0. They’d had a few opportunities to score, without success. They also nearly took a 1-0 but Peter managed to save the day. Had to admit, the guy had superhero-like reflexes. Barty wouldn’t be surprised if he got scouted. In addition to this, with James and Sirius managing the defence, their rivals might as well have been facing an iron wall. They moved in perfect synch, anticipating the other’s moves as if they could read their mind. Quite impressive to witness.

So yeah, all in all, it was about 98% sure that they weren’t going to lose. However, this didn’t entail that they would win either. They could end up with a tie. They had to score at least a goal to be assured of their victory.

Rosier and Larson, the other striker, had been constantly stopped in their course before they could reach the goalie. The Rovers had a strong defence too. The Lions got dangerously close, at times, but it never went through. Barty was actively trying to be bitter about it and pin it on Rosier, but it would have been a lie. In fact, if anything, Larson was to blame. He had fucked up the game’s most decisive pass earlier.

Barty quickly glanced up at the bleachers. His father and stepmom had arrived 5 minutes into the game, taking place next to Regulus. Lucky him. They didn’t say shit to Barty though, obviously. But Barty could feel his father’s presence as if he was breathing down his neck. He wished he wasn’t that affected, truly.

Taking yet another gulp, he squinted his eyes at the rival defence. He was trying to decipher their weaknesses, but the ball never stayed long enough to really get to the bottom of it. But he knew damn well that they had a formula. He just had to figure it out.

Come on, come on, focus.

Then, by some marvelous twist of fate, it finally dawned on him.

The left back couldn’t catch the ball high up. No torso control, no nothing. Every time the ball bounced within his perimeter, he swiftly switched side with the right back to let him deal with it.

8 minutes left. 0-0.

A quick lob would be enough to get past the defence on the left and into the net, without any possibility for the right back to react in time. He was convinced of this. But as he was celebrating his stroke of genius, Barty became overwhelmed with a dilemma:

Should he share this information? Technically, Coach could ask for a time-out.

He could also wait for his time to shine and be the one to score, ending up with all the glory.

But what if it didn’t work?

James’ incessant speeches began to echo in his head like a swarm of bees. 

You don’t win as a player, but as a team. You lose as one too.

No one gets left behind.

A guy with the best technique in the world is nothing without his teammates.

He was part of a team. Withholding that information could mean losing the game entirely (well, ending up on a tie, but that’s still losing to Barty).

Jesus fucking christ.

“Coach!” He suddenly rose to his feet, catching the attention of the man with a frown. “Ask for a time-out?”

“What the hell are you on, son? You’ll get to play soon, it’s alri-”

“It’s not about me playing,” Barty cut him off abruptly. “I’ve noticed something about the defence, something that’s bound to make us score. I need to tell them!” He gestured towards the strikers. “Please, trust me, I swear.”

Maybe the coach was desperate, or maybe he could simply tell that Barty wouldn’t take no for an answer but, either way, he called out the referee, signaling Barty’s request with a special hand gesture. The entire game stopped. The referee allowed for a two minutes break. No more, no less. They had to act quickly.

“ROSIER, LARSON,” coach shouted, almost growling. Both players immediately ran up to him and, judging by their faces, probably expecting some sort of blame. Barty would too, if he was addressed in such a tone. The coach turned to Barty, waiting for him to speak, the two players equally confused.

“Right,” Barty cleared his throat. “Here’s the thing: I’ve been observing their defence. Left back cannot control a ball coming from above to save his life. When it happens, he systematically swaps positions with the right back.” He paused, making sure they followed. “Instead of trying to dribble past him…”

“A lob. We have to dribble over him.” Evan exclaimed, his face lightening up. Barty nodded, sharing a knowing glance with him.

“Crouch, you bloody genius!” Larson said, beaming. “Evan, that’s like your thing.”

“Are you sure? I-,” the blonde began to protest, but the coach brushed it off with a clap on his back. “He’s right, Rosier. You have excellent ball control.”

Rosier seemed absolutely lost, as if waiting for some divine intervention to assure him that this was the right decision. Somehow, his gaze ended up on Barty. They locked eyes for what felt like eternity. Barty could see it oh so clearly. It was written all over his face, drowning in the lake of his eyes. 

Approval. Praising. Support.

He needs my trust, he needs to know that I trust him.

Think of James’ stupid mottos.

For the team. Don't be a dick.

Forcing himself not to cringe, Barty gave Evan the most reassuring look he could muster as he stretched out his hand to put it on his shoulder, almost close to holding his neck. He then uttered a simple:

“You’ve got this.”

EVAN

You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

This shouldn’t mean that much to him. Yet, somehow, it was only Barty’s words that kept ringing in his hears. Not Coach’s, not Larson’s. It just seemed like such a big deal, coming from him. Evan hadn’t meant to look for his approval, not really. It was instinctive. But Barty answered his call, despite his pride, their shared disdain, despite everything. He trusted him.

Fuck, I’m going to puke.

Without realizing it, Evan touched his neck, tracing the skin that had met Barty’s hand merely a minute ago. If he was startled by what he said, he was in absolute shambles when he touched him. It was unprecedented and, in Evan’s mind, about as likely to happen than someone walking on water. Yet.

Evan felt a surge of power, as if the gods of football had just passed through him. He was overcome with confidence. He let out a long sigh, puffed out his chest and waited for the whistle to blow again. As soon as it happened, he focussed his entire attention on the ball, his eyes never leaving it for a second, stuck to it with super glue. He followed its trajectory, from left to right, in the air, anticipating the passes of his team-mates, ready to stand out as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

Everything happened at the speed of light. James took the ball in, cleared it forward towards the midfielders. Lovegood intercepted it, turning to look for one of the two strikers. Evan waved to him immediately and within seconds the ball was at his feet. Evan began to run with all his soul - possibly even other souls, because he really felt as if he were in a trance. He passed easily through the midfielders, dribbling nimbly between them like it was nothing. He then approached his last obstacle: the left back.

You’ve got this.

The defender lunged forward, ready to tackle Evan. The blond voluntarily let him believe it but, at the last moment, he anchored his right foot  under the ball and, with a graceful movement, sent it flying over his opponent. He didn't linger for a second and ran past him , recovering the ball just as it hit the ground. He was heading straight for goal, facing nothing but the keeper. He could make up the loud cheers from the crowd, as well as the rapid thudding of his heart.

You’ve got this.

I do.

He shot. The whistle blew.

1-0. 

BARTY

Everybody piled up on Rosier, celebrating his goal. Unsure of what to do, Barty stayed behind, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. He had done it, Rosier had scored, merely seconds before half-time. Barty waited for his teammates to join him. They’ll go inside to discuss strategy for the rest of the game, while probably enduring a pep-talk from James.

“Bartemius Crouch,” a voice rang, cold. Barty hadn’t even begun to walk towards the locker rooms. His father had called for him, from the bleachers. Bracing himself and putting on a neutral face, Barty forced himself to climb up to meet his dreadful fate. He exchanged a quick glance with Regulus, who looked very uneasy. Pandora had left to go talk with Lovegood. 

“Yes, father?”

“It’s time for you to play,” he noted, though it was purely rhetorical. Sir Crouch was very, very much aware of the fact that Barty only had ‘half of a position as a striker’. Barty confirmed it with a nod, eager to get over this interaction as soon as possible. His father humpfed solemnly. You’d think Barty was being drafted right now, or at a funeral.

“Well, don’t embarrass us. Show that young man what you’re made of,” he gestured towards Rosier. “Your coach, too.”

“Make us proud!” His stepmom added, which might have sounded like a nice word but the way she pinched her lips rather gave the impression of a threat. Regulus was staring at him, helpless. Barty could tell that he wanted to say something, but it was no bother. He subtly shook his head and finally went back to his team. Inside, some of them were sited, others on their feet. The atmosphere was electric, everybody was buzzing over their 1-0.

“Now, now,” the coach pointed out. “Don’t get too excited. Everything can happen. So, don’t take unnecessary risks. The aim is to keep this score until the end. Understand boys?”

“Just know, I’m already proud of all of you!” James said. Jesus Christ. He really needed to chill. The team went back outside. The game would start again soon. Barty saw Evan running straight towards his friends: McDonalds, McKinnon, Evans and barista guy.

In an instant, Barty went from stressed out to annoyed. He almost forgot about everything as he witnessed Evan’s attitude. Who the fuck does he think he is? He scored because and only because of Barty. Yet, he didn’t even get a thank you? Worse, he’s parading like he owns the world when really, this was his idea?

Fuck him.

Scoffing, Barty marched towards his position. He was fuming.

---

After a couple of minutes, Barty quickly realized that, if he didn’t take matter into his own hands, he wouldn’t get any opportunity to show what he was made of. Because of what the coach had said, the game was stalled in midfield, just back and forth exchanges between the two teams. When the Rovers broke through, they were intercepted by the defence, Potter and Black clearing the ball straightaway. They weren’t trying to create opportunities for the strikers.

But Barty would be damned if he just accepted this. His father didn’t come for him to walk around, doing nothing like a houseplant.

He should have never helped Rosier.

At his wit’s end, Barty made a snap decision. He crossed his playing area until he found himself in defence. Potter gave him a confused look but he ignored it. The Rovers goalkeeper cleared the ball across the pitch, only this time Barty was there to catch it, despite the fact that it wasn't his job at all. He was, quite literally, standing on the opposite side of his position.

“What the fuck, Crouch?” Black yelled at him.

He controlled the ball with his torso, brought it to his feet and turned to run at the goalkeeper. He had to cross almost the entire pitch to get there, passing a large number of opposition players. He could be stopped at any moment and lose the ball. It was risky. But he didn't shy away from the challenge, driven by a mixture of emotions, each more extreme than the last: the desire to please his father, make the coach proud, and get back at Rosier for stealing his moment.

You gave it to him.

If the crowd was noisy during Rosier's push, this time it was hysterical. Shouts rang out everywhere, some chanting his name. He passed the strikers, the midfielders and the left back, heading straight towards the goal.

One second, he was ready to shoot, and the next he was suddenly on the ground.

He had just been tackled by the right back, coming out of nowhere. He let out a grunt of pain. You see, in football, for a tackle not to be considered a foul, the foot had to touch the ball first. In this case, it was Barty's ankle that had been hit. The referee immediately blew his whistle, issued a yellow card and stopped the match. Barty got to his feet, just about to smash the face of the player who had just stopped him. Since the foul had been committed in the goalkeeper's area, the Lions were awarded a penalty.

“Are you alright, man?” James had run up to him, handing him a water bottle. “This was bloody unfair. Don’t worry, it’s not on you. »

Barty remained silent, dismissing every word coming out of Potter’s mouth. Still, he was appointed by the coach to take the penalty. Despite the slight pain in his ankle, he took the kick.

2-0

Two minutes later, the whistle blew again. They had won.

Barty couldn’t fucking care less.

---

Afterwards, he made the effort to take part in the celebration for about five minutes before disappearing into the toilets. He needed to breathe for a second. The coach, though slighlty annoyed by Barty reckless move, still praised him. The rest of the players who managed to catch him did too, even Black. But he went into hiding before Rosier could even try to talk to him. He was furious. He couldn’t deal with his stupid face now, his hypocrisy.

This might have seemed stupid. After all, he had scored, didn’t he? All’s well, right?

Except it really wasn’t. He had scored with a penalty, the easiest way to do it. It didn’t count. He was just lucky enough to have fall down. He won because he was tackled. He had nothing to be proud of. His father will confirm it. This was worthless, useless. Worse, humiliating, to some extent. Barty folded his legs, closed the door behind him and let his head rest against the wall of the stall. His phone dinged. Regulus.

You played well, trust me.

You won’t, I know.

Anyway, I’m off, need to get ready for tonight’s torture.

Meet you there?

He replied with a simple ok, not bothering further. He didn’t have to. Regulus would get it.

EVAN

They were all in the locker rooms. A couple of guys already in the shower while some were still changing. Sirius and James were busy dancing to their victory playlist, which was currently playing some Shakira. Peter was attempting a rendition of a belly dance and, against all odds, nailing it.  Evan was humming along, struggling to fully partake in the festivities. He wanted to find Barty.  

He hadn’t managed to catch him after the game, as he pratically stormed off right when it ended. He didn’t know why he seemed so pissed off. He had scored ! Plus, he gave the performance of a lifetime when he crossed the entire pitch. Everybody went crazy about it. Though he didn’t verbalize it, the coach himself had been fucking impressed.

Maybe he was simply in pain. The tackle was pretty harsh. In any case, Evan was hoping to catch him before the party, to both congratulate and thank him. But the boy was nowhere to be seen.

“Yo, Evie, you sleeping?” Peter called out to him. “We bout to hit the showers. We’ll ride back with James, buy some food for tonight and all.”

There wasn’t much a stake. He should go with them. But it seemed wrong to wait for tonight to talk to Barty. To be honest, he couldn’t help but feel a bit concerned.

Oh well. He’ll stall back for a few minutes. Nothing to lose.

“Sure. I’ll catch up later though. I have to head back home for a bit.”

He didn’t need to tell them everything, alright? This felt like his own, private situation to deal with. Additionally, he didn’t want them to wait on him. He texted his parents as well, urging them to leave without him. They’d already drowned him in praise and kisses anyway.

Peter nodded, not asking more about it. They planned to meet back at James’ a little before the party, to help him set up everything. With a sigh, Evan got rid of his clothes and hopped in the showers. He made sure that the water was boiling hot, as warmth tended to help his body relax after exercising, almost a soothing balm. He took his time, hoping to see Barty’s figure appear. He then remembered that he’d usually leave as soon as training was over to shower at home. But hey, you never know. Plus, his stuff was still there. 

Or so he thought. By the time he decided to go out, all the guys had left and Barty’s stuff was missing.

Right. Well, there’s that.

Defeated, Evan changed back into some clean clothes, picked up his stuff and exited the locker rooms. Bag on his shoulder, he whistled very lightly. As he approached the parking lot, he jumped out.

Barty was there, with a man. Probably his father.

Evan stopped dead in his tracks, praying not to be noticed. Not simply at the thought of interrupting a conversation, but rather because of the nature of it. He couldn’t quite make up all the words, but what he could hear was enough.

“…least you didn’t miss the penalty,” his father said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Barty was just standing, not saying anything. Evan had never seen him like that: shoulders hunched, head down. He looked small.

“I left work early to come here, you know? Not only for you to play half of the game but to end up on the ground?”

Jesus. Evan blinked, taken aback by Mr Crouch’s comment. It was the first bloody game of the season and Barty had scored? How, just how was this such a big deal?

“Good,” he sighed heavily. “I've got to get back to the office to make up for lost time here. We'll continue this discussion later. I will not tolerate this sort of behaviour any longer, Bartemius.” Pause. “Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes sir.”

After a final nod, his father got into his car – a big, black SUV – and drove away, leaving Barty in the parking lot, Evan staring at his back. The boy was frozen in place. Tentatively, Evan took a step forward but Barty must have been on the lookout because he turned round instantly.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Rosier?” He blurted out.

« I-I wanted to talk to you.” Evan said, truthfully. “Didn’t mean to creep on you but-”

If Barty seemed surprised by this, it lasted but a second. “What’s your problem? If you’ve come here to gloat, get lost. I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

Wait, what?

“Why would I-,” he frowned. “No?”

“Of course, I’m so sorry.” Barty bite back, sarcastically. “You’re such a hypocrite you know that?”

“What?”

“What, why,” he snorted scornfully. “Can’t even form sentences? Are you that stupid?”

This got to him. Evan had always suffered from attention problems, which affected his ability to concentrate and therefore his studies. He had been called stupid and dumb more than once, by primary school teachers, or cruel kids. He needed more time than others to understand certain things, study more to get good marks. Calling him an imbecile hit him right in the heart.

“Don’t.call.me.that,” he growled, getting closer to the boy. Barty was observant, and knew right away that he had touched a sensitive spot. He didn’t budge, nor did he seemed threatened by Evan moving. Quite the contrary, he crossed his arms on his chest, a pleased expression on his face.

“It’s true though. Christ, you can’t even score without someone explaining shit to you.”

That’s when it clicked. Barty was mad: mad at him, mad at the fact that he’d helped him score while he had ‘missed’ his own kick, mad that it got him into an argument with his father. Evan softened. Anger left his body to be replaced with empathy.

“Is this about your father?” He asked, almost whispering.

Now, it was Barty’s turn to lose his stoic face, as well as all signs of contempt. His arms slowly fell back. Evan had found one of his sensitive spots, but with no desire to exploit it, though he didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish either.

“You didn’t even say thank you,” Barty suddenly stated, instead of answering his question. “For helping you. I could-I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Oh.

Evan blinked. The atmosphere was heavy as the two boys stood face to face in a confrontation that was no longer one. What was it, then?

“That’s why I wanted to talk. I couldn’t find you but…,” he said eventually, shaking his head. “I stayed back, to say it." He paused, his eyes staring into the boy's." So, now that I am here,” Another step, the distance being reduced to its minimum. “Thank you, Barty.”

He meant it, with all his heart. Barty was bound to feel it, right? He was sincere and his face didn't show a single trace of hatred or contempt. Barty had to see it, how couldn't he?

There wasn't much space left between them, but Barty filled it anyway, without a word. He was smaller, yet Evan could just as easily have been standing in front of a building. It was his aura, it engulfed him. Evan had learned this the hard way, but you could never tell where Barty stood with you. This moment was no exception. There was nothing to do but wait. Evan tried not to look intimidated. In fact, he wasn't really. Not in the sense of fear, anyway. More like... curiosity, an expectation so violent that it threatened to explode in his body. 

Barty tilted his face forward, so straight that you could have sworn he was a robot. He was staring, so close Evan could feel the warmth of his breath. It felt like playing a game of "who will be the first one to blink". There seemed to be a moment's hesitation, when Barty's gaze slipped downwards. But it was soon over. Eyeing him up and down, the boy finally let go, mechanically: 

« Your words don’t mean anything to me.”

He left with this bombshell of a comment.

He left him, he left Evan, confused, torn, standing in the deafening silence of the parking lot.

One step forward, ten thousand steps back.

Chapter Text

MARY

There is obviously such a thing as natural habitats when it comes to animals, but Mary would be the first to argue that it’s exactly the same for humans: particular environments where someone is more or less likely to thrive socially and unleash their full potential. When it came to Mary McDonalds, the answer was any sort of party. She liked to dress up and get ready, play with her hair and make-up, drink to the point of being tipsy but in a cute way, as well as flirt and dance unabashedly. That was her thing. Which is why she was in such a good mood. For a start, James Potter surely knew how to throw a party, especially if Sirius was helping (which was a given). Then, there was the fact that they had won the game which meant that everyone was bound to get sloshed to celebrate. Additionally, all of her girlfriends will be there. They had come up with a plan to help Marlene get with Dorcas, which will be fun too. Last but not least, she had a date tonight.

With Barty Crouch.

Sure, it all started with her and Evan betting on it, but she was fucking pumped about it. He was so goddamn fine, with his ridiculously sharp jaw and cheekbones and (probably) absolutely ripped body. He had a bit of a bad boy persona going on too which made her feel some type of way. That was about everything she knew about him, which is why tonight got her so excited. She wanted to see what his deal was, with his whole unapproachable act. Oh, she will be on her A-game tonight. Outfit wise, she had nailed it already: a tight red dress (her colour, period) with a lipstick to match it, smokey eyes and knee-high boots. She couldn’t wait for Barty’s reaction. They had decided to meet directly at James’, which entailed = an audience. Perfect.

That was the thing about Mary McDonalds: she was young, pretty and she liked sex. She liked to touch and be touched, bite someone’s bottom lip, give hickeys. She liked to have men’s eyes on her, to be gawked at, to know she was desirable… It made her feel validated. She didn’t give a shit about slut-shaming and double standards. Actually, she liked to play around those stereotypes, sometimes pretending to be dumber than she really was.

It was all fun and games.

As the door bell rang, indicating that Lily Evans had arrived to pick her up, she gave herself one last look in the mirror before exiting her house.

Yes, all fun and games.

She couldn’t wait to see Barty play.

EVAN

Was October a bit too early for New Year’s resolutions? Because Evan knew for an absolute fact that, as of now and for the rest of his entire life, he would never put his nose in someone else’s business ever again. Thank Barty Crouch for it. The most invasive person in the world would not survive his murderous stare.

Though, for once, Evan felt guilty about it. Barty had been extra nice to him at the game and he somehow still managed to fuck it all up. How? By involuntarily appearing ungrateful; by not saying thank you right away. Yes, that’s a ridiculous ass thing to get mad about, but Barty was not just anyone. This simple act had completely riled him up and, after witnessing his interaction with his father, Evan could understand why. Yes, for the first time, he could actually make some sense of Barty Crouch. If this was the sort of treatment that he was subjected to at home all the time, no wonder he had developed such a mean streak.

If he had to be honest, Evan kinda wished he had never seen this. Because now, his hatred towards Barty had morphed into something weird and more complex that had his head spin like crazy. He was annoyed at himself and, simultaneously, desperate to both avoid and talk to Barty. Fortunately, he had managed to put these thoughts aside by helping his friends set up James’ house for the party. Mechanical and repetitive tasks worked wonder for his obsessive brain. Eventually, all of the guys’ energy filled the space, leaving none for he-who-shall-not-be-named.

The current matter at hands was music. More specifically, Peter and Remus arguing about who was to be in charge of it.

“Remus, sunshine of my days, jam to my bread, apple of my eye,” Peter said with a deep sigh, as if he was talking to a child. “There is a time and place for your hipster shit, and 8PM on a Friday night is not it.”

“For christ’s sake, James!” Remus moaned, throwing his hands up in the air. It was quite the sight actually. People thought Remus was a super introverted dude with a calm demeanor, but that was far from the truth. Most of the times, he simply couldn’t be bothered. But when it came to stuff that he cared about, he would give Sirius a run for his money in terms of being a dramatic bitch. “Is nothing sacred anymore? This is your house, say something!”

“I don’t like conflict so I’ll be making fresh guacamole in the kitchen.” He shrugged before solemnly pointing at Sirius. “Pads will be my spokesman in my absence. I bequeath to him all my powers.”

Both of the boys turned to look at the boy. Sirius was currently blowing up balloons. Well, actually, he was mostly swallowing helium and putting on weird voices. He straightened his head, clearly reluctant to act as a mediator.

“You know, while I would be very grateful to carry on James’ legacy, I feel like it’s only fair that the man of the hour, aka the one who smashed it at the game, should decide,” he nodded, before shouting. “EVAN, IT’S ON YOU MATE.” Before he rushed to the kitchen where James had previously disappeared. The coward.

Evan rolled his eyes. “Alright, Pete gets to play music till around midnight when no one will be able to dance anyway. Remus takes over at this point to choose the soundtrack for the embarrassing drunken confessions.” He eyed them both. “Deal?”

“Sound,” Remus agreed before pointing a threatening finger at Peter. “But I don’t want to hear no electro-dance remix of Dancing queen.”

“Jesus, talk about a party pooper.” Peter answered. “But no more than two Bowie songs in a row.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

With this settled, they went back into planning. When everything seemed done, the boys all plopped themselves down on the sofa with a beer in hand.

“Cheers lads!” Sirius lifted his drink before talking a big gulp. “So, what’s the mood for tonight? Who’s getting absolutely smashed?” He raised his hand. “I know I am.”

“Course you are,” Remus said, snorting. “Dunno yet. Depends on how annoying you all will be.”

James laughed, shaking his head. “I won’t go further than elegantly tipsy. Need to watch over my house. Don’t want a redo of the fridge incident.”

“Who the fuck pukes in a fridge? I still wanna know who that was,” Peter said, almost admiring. “I’ll try to be on my best behaviour for Sybill but, if the date goes sour, I’ll be on the floor, annihilated.”

“My money’s still on the Crabb kid. Dude can’t hold his alcohol,” Sirius said, matter of fact. He then ruffled Peter’s hair. “Don’t worry, she’ll be simping in no time.” He leaned towards Evan with a pouty mouth. “Evan, please tell me you won’t leave me alone!”

Evan smiled, nodding. “Yeah no, I very much intend to forget my name.”

“LET’S GOOO!” Sirius screamed, high fiving the blonde. “Us against the world, Rosie.”

“He’ll be the star of the evening too,” Peter added, smirking. “Well, him and Crouch. Don’t mind sharing the spotlight?”

“I’m glad he’s coming,” Evan said, without thinking about it. The boys looked at him with round eyes, both surprised and suspicious. Clearing his throat, he simply shrugged like it was no big deal. “Team spirit.”

Team spirit my ass.

They bought it anyway and, soon enough, the conversation switched to Sirius’ choice of outfit for the night.

I hope he’s coming.

REGULUS

What a humbling experience. All day every day, Regulus acted like he didn’t gave two shits about the world, strutting with confidence, unbothered, ignoring everything easily. Yet, there he was, anxious because of a party. A party. Jesus. Talk about growth.

It was easy enough to put on an act when he was familiar with his surroundings. See, Regulus had himself perfectly compartmentalized: Regulus at school, Regulus at home, Regulus with his parents, Regulus with relatives. He had these versions down and rehearsed. They came naturally and he didn’t have to think twice about it to perform them. But Regulus at a party? Complete uncharted theory. Not just any party, mind you, but one thrown by his brother’s best friend. It had been some time since he was stuck in the same room as Sirius’ for more than two minutes. Hopefully, he’ll be too focused on himself and the party to even notice his presence.

Hopefully? Really?

Nope. Not doing this.

Regulus had no intention to deal with the small, minuscule, ridiculous six-year-old part of myself that couldn’t help but be eager for Sirius to notice him, to even feel slightly excited about what tonight could offer. Because expectations lead to disappointments, and he had had his fair share of those with Sirius already.

Stop it.

“Stop fiddling with it, Reggie!” Pandora’s voice suddenly complained. “You look very pretty, I told you.”

She had insisted that he wore something ‘casual’, which is how he ended up in a dark green t-shirt. It wasn’t anything scandalous, but foreign enough that Regulus felt weird about it. He liked to hide behind layers, no matter the weather. This party was truly God’s personalized trial for him.

“You do look good in green, mate.” Xenophilius Lovegood suddenly added with a genuine smile as he parked his car. They had just arrived at Potter’s place. Regulus exited the vehicle, mumbling a light ‘thanks’. He really ought to be nicer, but he wasn’t in the mood. He’ll apologize to Pandora later. Though, honestly, the boy was so lovestruck that not even Regulus' attitude could ruin his night.

“Pandora?” She trotted over to him, all giddy. “I’ll wait for Barty here. You two go ahead.”

“You sure? Alright!” She planted a light kiss on his cheek. She took Lovegood’s hand and quite literally dragged him inside. “See you inside!”

As soon as the blonde girl had left his side, Regulus felt a surge of panic taking hold of him. He exhaled deeply, trying to focus on his breathing, blocking as much noise as he could from the outside.

You’ll be alright.

He nodded, hyping his own thoughts. Conveniently, as he resurfaced, he noticed Barty, walking down the street and in his direction. Still, he gave him a wave, to make sure. The boy responded and, soon enough, they were face to face. Eyeing him up and down, Barty pinched his bottom lip with, Regulus had come to understand, was his version of ‘amused’.

“I’ve never seen you wear something so mundane.” He noted.

“Have to blend in with the plebeians, don’t I?” Regulus shrugged, forcing himself to hide his obvious discomfort.

“I know you hate it,” Barty said, very much aware of Regulus’ shuffles. “But the cosplay’s working…well for you.”

Regulus knew better than to linger on his nice words. They were both alike in that sentiment. Thus, if he was slightly flustered by Barty’s comment, he still acted nonchalant and simply nodded with half a smile in response.

“Are you alright?” He asked him with a deep frown. He had no intention to push it if Barty didn’t feel like talking. He was purely handing him an offer, should it be the case.

“Is anyone ever?” Barty scoffed sarcastically. “No. But I’ll manage.” He smacked his lips. “You?”

“I’d gladly swap places with Tantalus.”

“Pretty sure he’d refuse.”

“Oh, 100%.”

They both snorted. With one long sigh, Barty took a glance at the front door, then back to his friend. “Shall we?”

The house was already filled with people. Regulus stuck himself to Barty’s side to avoid losing him. Plus, he had no idea where to go. Barty probably didn’t either but he was bloody talented at pretending. He cut through the crowd, pushing people aside and staring straight ahead, as if on a quest for the Holy Grail, all the attention on him. Thankfully. After a few more jostles, they landed in the kitchen. The counter could put Gatsby to shame, with every drink imaginable on display. Barty took out two cups, filled them, and handed one to Regulus.

“Gin & tonic…” Regulus nodded at his friend. “Good call.”

“Figured you weren’t the vodka soda type of guy.” Barty raised his cup. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“Bartemiuuuus!”

They both looked up as Pandora ran up to them. She hugged Barty very, very briefly, as part of her privileges. “Congrats on the game! You were flying…like a kite with a football!” She nodded, giggling. “By the way, Mary McDonalds is looking for you. She’s in the living room, near the aux.”

“Fuck,” he mumbled. “There is that.”

“She’s dressed up so nice! You’ll see!”

“I’ll go and check that with my own eyes then.” Barty said, though not before he downed his drink and refilled it straightaway. He gave Regulus a last look and disappeared.

See, Regulus might not be a psychic, but he had a feeling that there was no way for this situation to end well. 

---

It lasted but ten minutes before Regulus was left on his own. To be fair, Pandora had offered to stay but he could tell that she wanted to dance with her…well, Lovegood. Whatever their status was. Anyway, he had assured her that he’d be okay. A terrible lie but just because Regulus had a bad time didn’t mean that everyone had to.

He spent another ten minutes in the kitchen before he eventually got bored. There is only so many bottle labels that one can read. He briefly glimpsed at the living room but decided that it was both too loud and too crowded. Which left him with…

Upstairs.

Which seemed very inappropriate. He had seen other people go up there but, somehow, it still felt wrong. Maybe it had something to do with whose house this was.

James Potter’s.

Fortunately, Regulus was a man of limited morals and quickly found himself snooping around through unknown corridors. Whoever had decorated the place had taste. Everything, from the wallpaper to the paintings, to the furniture and even the carpets screamed care. Some vintage stuff mixed in with more modern things, a lot of colors yet nothing clashed. It was a home, really. People lived here. Which sounds like such a stupid thing to say, like it’s a given, but Regulus knew damn well it wasn’t. His house was filled with the most delicate tapestries, a marriage of blacks, greys and dark blue, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and an ornamented staircase made of marble. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t a house. Regulus would rather describe it as a museum, somewhere you’re not supposed to stay.

Bathroom. Another bathroom. Small cabinet. Bigger cabinet. Well. What a journey.

Regulus turned around, ready to start his tour all over again (he didn’t feel like heading downstairs just yet). That’s when he noticed an open door. Well, semi open. It bugged him. Either close it or don’t, but don’t leave it like that? Especially if…

Wait.

Is there someone in there?

Regulus froze, listening. Oh yes. There were people inside, plural, and at it too. Who the hell does that? Who has sex at someone else’s house?

A lot of people, probably. How would you know?

“Regulus?”

Instant heart attack. Startled, he turned around, only to be met with the confused face of none other than James Potter. Now, Regulus was known for his sharp-wit. He always had something to clap back with. Now, however? He was standing like a moron, mouth agape, which seemed to be the funniest sight known to man if James’ smile was any indication. His cheeks were warm. Regulus was praying to all the gods out there that this didn’t mean that he was blushing.

Say something. I’m begging you.

“Potter.” He scoffed, with as much disdain as possible. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Useless too, because James didn’t look the least intimidated. The bastard was full on smirking now.

“What are you doing here?” The boy with the glasses inquired, though there was no trace of aggression in his voice. He really was just asking.

Finally recovering some of his brain cells, Regulus blurted out, confidently. “Initially, I was living my best recluse life in this room when these animals threw me out.” He gestured towards the door.

“Right,” James took a step closer. “And you decided to stay here to peep?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“To protest, obviously,” He rolled his eyes, as if the situation couldn’t be more logical. “I thought that if I stayed here long enough, they’ll eventually feel too embarrassed to continue and leave.”

A silence fell. Something Regulus immediately regretted when a loud moan echoed through the space.

“How’s that working?” James snorted, very pleased with the timing of his response.

The younger black let out a groan, admitting to his defeat reluctantly. “It does seem like I’m going to lose patience before they lose their audacity.”

The boy laughed out loud. Regulus noticed that the corner of his eyes had little wrinkles which, really, was no surprise for someone that seemed to be constantly walking on sunshine. However, he would be lying if he said that he didn’t find it endearing. Slightly, at least.  

“Well, there goes my quiet place I guess.” Regulus sighed, trailing his eyes on the ground. When he looked up again, James tilted his head to the side. “Follow me,” He said, gently, walking down the corridor. They stopped in front of a door and Regulus watched as James took out a key. When they entered the room, his eyes blinked to take in the sight.

“This is my dad’s study. He’s got some important stuff in here so I never leave it open but…you can stay, if you want to. No one is going to bother you.”

Books. Lots of them, from floor to ceiling, neatly displayed on shiny wooden shelves. There was also a small desk with a stack of papers, as well as a typewriter. A few pictures were hung up on the walls, but the main attraction was a framed print of one of Alfred Dürer’s engravings.

“Melencolia,” Regulus whispered to himself. He had almost forgotten about James’ presence when he heard the boy speak, softly.

“You're familiar with it?” James inquired. He was standing near the now closed door, arms crossed around his chest. Regulus gave him a brief side glance, nodding, as his attention was completely devoted to the painting. James took a step forward. He could feel his body towering over him.

“Tell me about it.” It was gentle, so delicate that Regulus could have easily missed it. A timid prayer, a shy murmur, and yet it filled the entire room. But this was James Potter for you: the loudest soul even when he wasn’t trying to be.

He cleared his throat. “This is part of Albrecht Dürer’s master prints, or Meisterstiche. They are three in total. This one, Knight, Death and the Devil and St. Jerome in His Study, all made in the span of a year and a half during the 16^th century. Now, Dürer didn’t actually group them together; historians and critics did. To them, there is some sort of…spiritual unity between the three pieces, a mysterious link that has yet to be completely interpreted.” He paused, staring at the figure facing him. “It’s just a theory though and not everyone agrees with it.”

A silence fell. He wasn’t sure how long it lasted. Time didn’t exist anymore; not in this room. Here, they could not be reached by the temporality of the outside world.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard you talk that much.” He could feel the boy’s gaze, burning his neck. Regulus remained with his back to him.

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Oh.

Regulus chose this moment to finally turn to look at James. “Right.” He cleared his throat, shuffling with his feet. “So, are these your dad’s books then?” He gestured towards the multiple shelves. For someone so accustomed to silence, he was finding it unbearable now.

James shook his head. “Nah, my grandfather’s. He taught at university for like…30 years or something.” This generated a soft smile on his face. “Philosophy and literature. Smartest guy I’ve ever known. He died three years ago.” He extended his hand to take out a book. “He wrote this, actually.” Then, handing it to Regulus, “Initially, he wanted to become a writer but that didn’t work out, though he did publish this.”

The cover was simple: it depicted a shore with a dark sky above it. A silhouette was standing on the beach, face towards the sea.

“Solace comes at a price,” he read. “Have you read it?” James shook his head. Regulus placed the book back on his shelve. “You don’t read much?”

“Well, what is much?” He smiled, shrugging. He paused for a moment. “By the way…” Regulus arched his brow, questioning. “It’s nice that you came to the game.”

To this, Regulus was taken off guard. Eventually, he put on his usual, indifferent face and said in a defensive tone: “I didn’t come for Sirius.”

“Never said you did,” James argued, though there was no trace of blame in his voice. “Just that it was nice.”

Oh.

Regulus didn’t really care, but the question slipped out of his mouth spontaneously:

« How did you even…, »

« Recognize you? » James smiled, shrugging. “The beanie. It’s the one Sirius gifted to you on your…what? Twelve birthdays? You wore it every day, afterwards. Until, well. You know.”

When Regulus said he only saw Sirius’ friend group as one big herd, he lied. Partially. He noticed James. But it was different, simply because he knew James and James knew him before it all went to shit. Actually, as far back as his memory could go, there was never a world without James Potter. Sirius befriended him in primary school and from then, he was everywhere.

He had replaced Regulus as his brother’s best friend. But somehow, Regulus was never able to fully resent him for it. How could he? Every time Regulus would glare at him, explicitly expressing his dislike, James Potter would smile at him. He was never not nice to him.

This made Regulus feel small, like he was a child again. When he was younger, if you could believe it, he was loud. Almost as loud as Sirius, actually. Only later did he become…well, like that. Silent. Calm. Focused. Never making any wave. But even now, James still noticed him in the bleachers, with half of his face covered. If he was touched, he showed none of that to the boy, as he answered:

“Kinda creepy for you to remember that. Almost stalker behavior actually.”

“Funny, coming from the guy who was checking out the entire team like a psychopath earlier.”

« I-I, » he groaned. « I was bored, don’t flatter yourself. »

« Sure you were, » he smirked. “Well, on that note, I’m gonna head back. Got to make sure the house does not burn down.” He handed him the key, which Regulus took with hesitation, as if it were a trap. Their hands barely brushed together, but it made him twitch. He was not used to being touch in any way. “Keep it and just close when you leave, alright?

“Thank you.” As James was about to leave, Regulus couldn’t help bus ask: “James?” The boy turned around, curious. “Did Sirius notice me?” He really ought to know better. He didn’t even care, not really.

“I-,” He cleared his throat, moving awkwardly. “You know, it was very busy and…”

Regulus cut him off. « It’s alright. I was just wondering.”

“Right.” Pause. “Well, I’m sure he’d be glad to know you were there.”

The subtext was clear enough. He’s downstairs. You can actually go and talk to him.

But it wasn’t that easy. They both knew it, which is why James didn’t wait for answer as he left the room, leaving Regulus with his thoughts.

BARTY

Barty was never that interested in relationships. Ever since his mother’s death, he had pushed people away, which was not the ideal disposition to go on dates. He had never had a girlfriend, though he did experience with some kissing and foreplay. It never went further though. The sort of intimacy that sex required – or seemed to require – was too big of a thing to fathom. He didn’t feel like he was missing on anything though. He really couldn’t care less. Hell, even jerking off wasn’t a thing for him. When he did get boners, he simply waited for it to go away or took ice-cold showers.

Everyday, he was thankful to be living in the 21^st century, for at least that meant that his father wasn’t harassing him about finding a wife or anything. It would probably become a concern of his eventually, but he gathered he still had some time left.

As of now, his main issue was Mary McDonalds. Or, rather, letting Mary McDonalds down easily. He figured he could just tell her he wasn’t interested, but that was before he actually found himself here. In practice, he had no clue.

“Anyway, that’s about it,” She said, smiling. He blinked. Fuck, he had completely zoned out. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to realize it. “What about you? What’s the story?" She asked, taking a sip of her drink.

He frowned. “My story?”

“You know like…how did you end up here and all.”

“Ah. Right.” He cleared his throat. “My stepmom is from England and she wanted to come back so…yeah. Just followed her.”

“Where were you before?”

“Well, the last place was New York.”

“Last place?”

“I’ve moved around a lot.” See this, he could manage. Small talk, exchanging pleasantries. Not that deep. To avoid another question, he added, “I’ve lived in Germany for a while, France, but mostly in the US.”

“Oh whoa! That’s a lot actually.” She leaned in and put her hand on his arm, brushing his skin. “Must be hard to form connections…”

“Do you want a drink?” He cut her off then, forcing himself to ‘smile’. It probably looked like a grimace, if anything.

“Oh, sure.” He took her glass. “Vodka Redbull, thank you!”

As he got to the kitchen, he poured himself a cup of straight vodka that he immediately gulped down. 

---

In vino, veritas. When someone is intoxicated, they will tell the truth. It was such a clichéd saying, overused to the point that it had become meaningless. Barty hated conventional expressions. The language was so rich, so complex, but the people using it were lazy, chewing on the same ideas over and over again.

Yet.

Barty could feel the alcohol getting to his head, to the point of losing sight of why he had ended up here in the first place: a stupid bet. Evan Rosier, and a girl he had no interest in pursuing, with whom he was currently chatting. Actually, forget about ‘getting to his head’. That was a fucking euphemism: Barty was pissed. Thankfully, he wasn’t one on one with McDonalds anymore. They had been joined by Pettigrew, Potter, red haired girl from Mr Tonk’s class (he was too drunk to remember her name) as well as Pandora and Lovegood. Quite the party. But it allowed him to stay silent and nod randomly. It was alright enough, till they were interrupted by the loud and obnoxious entrance of Sirius Black and fucking Evan Rosier. They had their arms around each other, laughing like crazy. Remus Lupin was trailing behind. 

"You alright there guys?" Pettigrew asked, amused. 

“We were playing beer pong outside. Got kicked out because apparently, we cheated.” Evan said.

Potter snorted. “How do you even cheat at beer pong?”

“My point exactly.” Black answered.

“Believe or not, they've actually managed to cheat.” Lupin said, rolling his eyes.

Barty vision had progressively gotten more and more blurry. He could make out the people around him but couldn’t focus for too long. His gaze kept wandering. Yet, when Evan came into his peripheral, he found himself staring, not being able to look away. Though, to his defense, the blonde was already doing the same thing when his eyes ended up there. This seemed to be a recurring event now: somehow, whatever the situation, Evan Rosier was always looking at him, with the same intense blue eyes. However, when they had previously been filled with disdain and anger, there was none of that now. It was soft. Worse, empathetic. This wasn’t a parameter that Barty knew how to operate on, and there was nothing that the boy hated more than not being in control. Ignorance equaled vulnerability. Barty was in now way vulnerable. He couldn’t afford to, not anymore, hadn’t been able to in a long time. He didn’t want to either.

Evan Rosier was pitying him. It was his fault too; he had let the boy got to him, let the fact that he didn’t appear grateful at the game affect him. At first, he had told himself that it was purely spite. That was part of it, but it couldn’t account for the whole thing.

Barty hated that he wasn’t in control, and so he hated Evan Rosier. He wished he could express it all through his eyes. Words couldn’t even begin to make sense of it. Rarely had language failed him before.

I hate you.

Why are you looking at me?

Stop it.

“Bartyyyy?”

He blinked, coming out of his trance. Evan seemed to have been in the same state if his reaction was any indication, like he has just been woken up from a dream.

A nightmare, actually.

Barty cut the staring contest, now turning his attention to Mary. She beamed, eyes all bright, which clashed with the black eyeshadow circling them.

“Mh?”

“Do you want to dance?”

“Yeeeees let’s dance!” Lily Evans (he remembered) chirped in. “No, Sirius. Don’t look at me like that. You’re too pissed and…” She clicked her tongue. “…James will step on my feet. Peter, you’re my only hope!”

“Sorry Lils,” He gestured to the girl next to him. Fuck, was she there before? Jesus. He hadn’t even noticed her. “I’ve promised a dance to Sybil already.” He smiled.

“I’ll dance with you.” Rosier suddenly intervened, which had Evans jumped up in excitement.

Barty was no dancer. The mere thought made him shiver. But, he was petty and spiteful. Thus, he’d be damned if he decided to stand aside and watch Rosier. Also, his alcohol level was too high for him to be ashamed.

“Yes.” He said to Mary, which seemed to surprise everyone. “Let’s dance.”

It all happened very quickly. Pettigrew put on a specific song, which had both Mary and Lily squealed. They both dragged their partners to the dance floor, soon followed by Pandora and her date and Pettigrew and…

Well. He really sucked at remembering names tonight uh?

Barty wasn’t familiar with the song, unlike everyone else apparently. Mary hooked her arms around his neck which forced him to put his on both of her hips. Even as pissed as he was, he was conscious enough to realize how weird it would be to just stand with his arms down. He soon discovered it wasn’t that hard to pretend. This wasn’t ballroom dancing and he merely had to follow Mary’s moves to look decent.

“You’re not bad at this,” Mary commented, throwing her head back. She then got closer to him and proceeded to whisper, “I think it’s hot.”

If he was sober, he definitely would have shut the fuck up. "Yeah?" He smirked. "I get that a lot."

“Do you know?" She replied, flirting back. "Well, people are staring so I’ll say we both look really hot together.”

What the hell are you doing?

She wasn’t lying though. Barty quickly glanced around and found that, indeed, a couple of eyes were trained on them. Pandora was smiling which, again, in a sober state, would have immediately stop him because he knew what that entailed. ‘See ! You like her!’ Peter briefly nodded at him too, quite neutrally.

But the real price was Rosier’s stare. In between twirls with Evans, he kept stealing looks, surprise written all over his face.

The bet.

He dared McDonalds to ask Barty out, convinced he’d refuse. Yet, there was, dancing. This realization brought a new level of energy to Barty’s body: a cocktail of both vodka and satisfaction. A deadly combination, which made him grab Mary’s hips forward so that they were now pelvis against pelvis.

“We do have some fans.” He replied. 

Mary laughed. Barty could feel her fingers tracing lines on his neck. She bit her lip, eyeing up and down. “You want to give them a real show?” She asked him, to which he reacted by arching his brow, curious. If wasn’t that intoxicated, he wouldn’t have been so oblivious.

He nodded.

She tilted her head, her nails now digging at his skin to get him to lean in his face towards her. It was only a matter of seconds before Barty’s mouth encountered hers, and even less time before they were full on kissing. She closed her eyes straightaway.

The last thing Barty saw before he mimicked her was a pair of blue eyes, and a body that had stopped dancing. He smiled against Mary’s lips, which she took as a sign to deepen the kiss, slipping her tongue in his mouth.

In vina veritas.

When they broke it off, Barty grin couldn’t have been bigger if he had tried, but it was for all the wrong reasons. None of them matched with Mary’s, but she was completely unaware of that fact.

“Gosh, I thought it’d never happened." Mary said, laughing. “I’ve been putting in the effort all night!”

He laughed. At this point, he was so out of it that he was merely pavloving her.

“It’s true! Don’t laugh!” She shook her head. “You know, for a second, I actually thought you weren’t attracted to me at all.”

In vina veritas.

Barty couldn’t help it. Her comment sent him into a fit of laughter. A loud, obnoxious one. All of this was so silly. His head was spinning, the music too loud, and god, he hated Evan Rosier.

But he had won this round.

“This is so absurd.” He said, in between giggles. Actual giggles. Bartemius Crouch Jr was giggling and grinding against a girl he didn’t care about.

“What is?” She asked. If she was amused before, she now seemed to grow more and more confused about the situation.

In vina veritas.

Oh, she had to be let in on the fun! Barty couldn’t be the only one having the time of his life. She needed to know. This was hilarious.

With his last remaining brain cells, Barty blurted out, “It’s absurd because-” Laugh. “I’m-” Laugh. “God!” Pause. “I’m not even attracted to you!”

All of a sudden, the dancing stopped. Barty blinked, intrigued. Before he could say anything, Mary cut him off:

“Excuse me?”

“Well, it’s absurd that I’m here, dancing and kissing because,” Oh, there goes the laughing again. “I don’t want you.”

The last time that someone had hit him, it was his father.

This was nothing like it.

Barty brought his hand to his face in shock, where the girl had just slapped him. “What the hell?”

“You’re such a fucking asshole!”

He watched as she stormed out of the room at the speed of light. He glanced up to discover that all eyes were on him, the entire room staring in confusion. He was not having fun anymore. He saw Pandora taking a step forward and, for the first time since he had met her, she wasn’t smiling. He didn’t wait to find out why. He went straight into flight mode, racing upstairs. He entered the first door that he saw, which conveniently happened to be the bathroom.

“FUCK” He shouted. 

EVAN

Sometimes, your body moves before you even ask him to and, by the time your brain catches up, you’re already well on your way. In that case, Evan’s body didn’t think twice before rushing after Barty. A really weird course of action, as the most logical thing would have been to go after Mary. She was his friend after all, whereas Barty was…Barty.

“Ev-” James tried to block him, worried. The blonde shook his head and tried to appear reassuring. “I’m not going to fight him, I promise.” Which didn’t mean that he knew why he was going after him either. He just had to, like an invisible string was pulling him upstairs. For some reason, he felt almost sober, all of a sudden. As he raced to the first floor, Evan immediately followed the loud noise coming from the bathroom. He burst in to the sight of Barty punching his head with his knuckles. He instinctively came up behind him and forced him to put his hands down. Barty turned around and proceeded to get him off with violence, which sent Evan stumbling backwards.

He followed his movement and closed the space between them. Evan could feel his breath on his cheeks. “Why is it that you’re always fucking following me, Rosier? Do you actually want to fight?” He shouted. “That’s it right? You want it?”

“That’s not why I’m-” Evan protested, raising both of his arms in surrender. However, Barty was having none of that. He pushed him vigorously, slamming his back against the door. “Come on then! What are you waiting for?” His eyes were burning with anger. He was not playing.

As he was about to shove Evan again, the boy grabbed his wrists, keeping him in place. Barty immediately began to fight to escape his grip. He was essentially beating the air though, too drunk to function properly. This made it easy for Evan. He dragged the boy to the bathtub in a swift movement and released him. Before he could do anything, Evan grabbed the shower head and turned on the water, making sure it was ice cold. Within seconds, Barty was soaked from head to toe, groaning loudly.

“What the fuck?” He screamed when Evan switched it off.

“Are you calm now?” 

“I’m-” He groaned again. He looked down, whining. “Mostly wet.”

Evan went to lock the door. He stayed leaning against it, arms crossed. Barty straightened up but remained in the tub, folding his arms in his lap. He looked like a sulking child, staring into the void. Evan hadn’t noticed how long his hair was till now. Wet, it covered his entire forehead and it looked almost black. His shirt was clinging to his shoulders and torso, so much so that Evan could make out the outline of his collarbones. He really was quite skinny. 

“Stop doing that.” Barty’s voice cut through the silence, though he was still fixated on the same spot.

“Doing what?” He inquired, truly curious. There could be a thousand different answers to that question.

“Looking at me.” Barty shuffled slightly, though he still refused to turn his attention to him. “You’re always there, looking. I don’t understand why. It’s making me crazy.”

He could clap back, argue that Barty was actually the first to do it all the time. He could also deny it. He could do anything but give him a straight answer. Because, in reality:

“I don’t understand either, to be honest.” The pure, unfiltered truth. “Why do you always respond to it?”

“I wish I knew.” He sighed, burying his head in his arms. “I really do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know.”

The boy snorted, though the noise was partially covered due to his current position. “This is such a riveting conversation.”

“Well, you’re not giving me much to work with,” Evan replied. He added, playfully, “Aren’t you supposed to be the smartass genius here? I’m not the one taking an advanced literary class.” He paused. Gently, he got to his feet to go and kneel in front of Barty, separated only by the tub’s surround. “After all, you did save the game with your insightful expertise.” He paused. “Thank you for that.”

This finally got him a reaction. The boy lifted his head. There seemed to be a battle going on in his eyes. Eventually, he let out a simple, “I did.” He scoffed. “Didn’t have a choice. Larson can’t even pass the ball without fucking it up.” It was said in such a bitchy way that Evan couldn’t help but laugh. It felt like a confessional scene in a reality tv show where the contestants just talk shit about each others.

“It’s not funny,” Barty jeered at him, full on pouting.

“Sure. Whatever you say, you wet rat.”

Evan wasn’t expecting actual retaliation, which is why he barely had time to blink before Barty turned on the water and directed the spray at him.

“Turn it down!” Evan screeched, covering his face. He threw himself over Barty, getting him to drop the showerhead. He closed the water and looked at the boy he had pinned down. He released his grip but didn’t move as they both stared at each other, panting. Against all odds, the boy wasn’t glaring but, rather, sporting a prideful smirk.

“Now, who’s the wet rat?” Of course, he was still being a bitch, but this was new. It was playful, even if he was mocking him.

Evan stayed put, perhaps afraid that Barty was about to snap at any time, but also because he simply had no desire to move. The boy didn’t seem to mind though. At least, he wasn’t trying to make any attempt to free himself. There was nothing remotely normal about their current predicament but, again, nothing ever was with them. 

“Actually, I’m taking it back,” Evan smacked his lips. “You’re more like a whiny, wet kitten.”

“Yeah well I’m staying with the rat for you.” Barty scoffed, as if this was the clapback of the century, which had Evan snort. A silence fell. It should have been awkward, but it rather felt like a pause, as if they were both waiting for something hanging on midair. Evan was trying to find the answer in Barty’s eyes, but he could only see weariness.

“Hey,” He called out, softly. “Are you okay?”

Barty shrugged. “Best day of my life, really,” he laughed dryly. “I got slapped and it wasn’t even by my dad.”

Well. That’s dark.

“That was him, wasn’t it? In the parking lot?”

“You’re so observant.” The boy replied in his usual sarcastic tone. “Don’t look at me like that, Rosier. I’m not about to become someone’s charity case and especially not yours.” He paused. “Yes, that was my dad, just pestering me about my missed shot.”

“But you bloody scored- “

He cut him off straightaway. “Not to him, I didn’t.” He jerked his head back. “Actually, I even made him ashamed. So, there’s that.”

Evan frowned, at a loss for words. Not that they usually came easily to him, but still. This was irrational. If Barty had been raised by someone so unsound, Evan couldn’t begin to see a way where he would actually listen nor believe him. However, something that did come naturally to him was touching. He was a man of action and deeds before he was one of words. It always seemed to him that speaking was a reckless leap, where so much could be lost in translation, misinterpreted or blurted out for the wrong reasons. A gesture could always be misread, but it seemed less likely.

He moved his hand up to Barty's face and pressed his knuckles against his cheek, as gently as he could. The touch made him flinch, but he didn’t pull away from it. Evan couldn’t help but think back to the way Barty had put his hand on his neck at the game to show Evan he trusted him. Maybe this really was the best communication for them. Ever so slowly, Evan began to stroke his cheek. For someone so harsh and angry, Barty touched like porcelain. He felt like holding water in your hands whiles trying not to lose a single drop, like dancing on thin ice in concrete shoes, a delicate and wild bird that could fly away at any minute.

What the hell are you on about about now?

I’m drunk, he simply reminded himself. Barty is fucking pissed too.

Evan watched as the boy gave into the touch, watched as his features relaxed and he closed his eyes. Evan couldn't help but notice how long and dark Barty's eyelashes were. No wonder he had such an intense gaze. If he wasn't shit at drawing, he would have like to capture this exact moment

"Feels good." The boy mumbled. This made Evan smile. "I won't stop then."

They stayed like that for a good minute, the room filled with nothing but them breathing.

“Barty?” A voice cut through the silence, followed by a knock on the door which startled both boys. Barty’s eyes fluttered open as he removed Evan’s hand from his face. “Are you okay?” The voice asked.

Barty quickly propped himself up and pushed himself out of the bathtub. The sudden movement made Evan stumble.

“Yes,” he replied. “Be there in a second.” He turned around, gaze stopping on Evan. “I should…”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “See you.”

There was another pause before the boy finally got to the door and exited the room, leaving Evan alone. 

MARY

Mary was such a mess. For the past fifteen minutes, she had been sat there, crying, in James’ Potter bloody pantry. So much for getting ready. Now, she looked like a racoon with rabies. It would have been humiliating enough to be in that state on her own, but she actually had an audience. As soon as she had stormed out, people had gone after her. They were looking at her with a mixture of pity (Marlene and Dorcas), annoyance (Lily) and discomfort (James).

“It’s okay. He’s a dick, it’s not on you.” Marlene said, circling her back to smooth her. 

“It kind of is, actually,” Mary sniffed. “I’m just so bloody sick of having men treating me like shit all the time, you know? Yet I let them, over and over again, because I-I, I need it. I need to be fancied, to be found attractive, to be desired…I need them, period. I need their validation and guess what? I have it. I’m thriving, actually. Men want me, but they have no interest in getting to know me for real. I have an expiration date, I’m just a way for them to get off and I can’t blame anyone but myself. They’re assholes but I let them. What does that say about me? What does that make me? A slut? An idiot? It’s pathetic. I don’t even think that I can like, not do that.” She stopped to wipe her nose on the back or her hand. At that point, honestly, all sense of dignity was out the window. “I want people to like me so, so much. It’s killing me. I wish that at least one fucking guy would look twice for…” She laughed, dryly. “Well, at least one fucking day.” She paused. “I wish I wasn’t so annoying and needy, that I could play it cool. I wish I didn’t have to try so hard to seem like a natural. I wish I actually was one. I’m tired of being a liability.”

“You’re not, Mary! I promise you!” James intervened; his eyes filled with so much empathy that she wanted to puke. God, she was so miserable.

“Why is it such a big deal?” Lily shrugged. “Like Marls said, he’s just a dick. Plus, this was all a bet anyway.”

On any other day, Mary would have taken it. Because, ultimately, Lily was right. She always was. Lily, the grounded one, the one with actual confidence, not a made-up one like hers. If Mary ever had a genie, that’s what she’d ask for: to be just like Lily Evans.

Yes. Her friend was right, but it wasn’t the point. Mary was hurt but, in a sense, it had nothing to do with Barty personally. It could have been any other guy. He just so happened to be tonight’s vessel for Mary’s triggers. It drove her mad that no one could understand this. They all thought she was upset over Barty but it ran so fucking deeper than that.

“Can you give me a fucking break, Lily? Sorry I’m just a dumb whore, I can’t help it.” She snapped back, her sulking now replaced with a burning anger. “Actually, leave. All of you. I don’t want to see any single one of you.” She paused then, seeing that none of them were moving, “GET OUT!”

They all obeyed reluctantly.

---

“I'm still a believer but I don't know why, I've never been a natural all I do is try, try, try.” Mary mumbled, peeling off yet another bottle’s etiquette. She had her headphones on, very much set on the fact that she wouldn’t get out before she had gone through Taylor Swift’s entire discography. Even then, she might only consider it. She could stay here forever. She had food, drinks and angst. All of life’s primary needs basically.

She was laying on the floor, facing the door, when she noticed that someone had just passed a note under it. It read:

Let me in? – Peter

Sighing, she stopped her music and got to her feet. “Are you alone?” She asked, before unlocking anything.

“Yup.”

He actually was. Mary was full on expecting a trap, an intervention with all of her friends waiting on the other side. But Peter hadn’t lied. It was just him. With a smile, he brought his hand to his ear and retrieved a ridiculously long joint.

“Wanna get high?”

For the first time since the Barty shitshow, Mary found herself laughing. “Fuck yes, please.”

They both got out and rushed outside, making sure that no one was paying attention. They could have remained on the patio, but Mary wasn’t keen on having Lily - or anyone else – interrupt them. Eventually, they settled for a little path of green behind the house. Peter lit up the spliff and immediately handed it to her.

“Ladies first and all that.” He joked.

“I’d tell you that you’re a gentleman but the standards are in the basement so…” She shrugged, taking a long drag.

“Figured,” He nodded. “What a dick. I guess Evan really was onto something,” He clenched his neck theatrically. “Which, come to think of it, is actually the worst thing about this whole situation.”

Mary grinned. This was good. No grand speech or patronizing tone, no pity. Just them getting high and making fun of it all. “I know. People just don’t get that this is what I was upset about.” She passed the joint.

“They just don’t get it. Thanks.” He took a drag. “It’s too subtle, even for Lily Evans.”

“Yeah…,” She trailed, before she remembered, “Wait, where’s Sybil?”

“Oh, she went home already.” Pause. “But honestly, I would have come to see you either way.”

“Yeah?” Oh god. She hated how her voice cracked, like she was about to cry again. This was pathetic. The smallest show of affection could send her weeping right now.

“It sucks that you seem so surprised to hear it, but yes.” He nudged her playfully. “Just out of convenience, mind you. I wanted to play hero and you happened to there.”

She snorted. “Coming for James’ gig, are we?”

“Yeaaaah, he really needs to sort that out at some point. Bless him though. My guy was a fucking knight in his past life.”

She busted out laughing. For a while, they did nothing else: cracking up jokes and passing the joint, with the occasional innocent jab at their friends. Peter was so easy to be around. Mary could see how essential he was to the whole James-Sirius-Remus constellation. He was hilarious but knew when to just shup up and listen, kind without forcefully showing it and quick-witted.

“You’re amazing Pete you know that?” She sighed, hear head falling onto his shoulder. He tilted his in response.

“Even with the standards being so low?”

She looked up, her gaze locking with his. She had never noticed how soft his eyes were, a brown so sweet it resembled honey, matching the freckles on both his cheeks and forehead. His lips were full and plumped, which almost made her jealous. It also made her want to kiss them.

So she did.

She didn’t think about it. They were so close already, she barely had to raise her face. It wasn’t a passionate snog or anything but, in Peter’s fashion, very gentle. It felt incredibly good.

“Fuck!” She pulled away, suddenly, the realization of what she had just done hitting her like a truck. “I’m so sorry Peter I-“

“Hey, hey. Calm down.” He smiled. “It’s alright Mary, really. I mean, we’re both pretty high.”

They were. She nodded, regaining her composure. Although, somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear herself think:

I would have done it sober too.

MARLENE

"Men really do suck." Marlene commented, looking at Dorcas with a sigh. They were in the kitchen, alone, having just been chased away by Mary. James had ran off somewhere. Marlene knew this was THE opportunity, her one chance to ask Dorcas out on a date. She didn't make it easy though: she looked so hot tonight. She was wearing a white blouse with a black harness on top, as well as criminally tight trousers. Her hair was braided and decorated with a bunch of silver clips. But the cause of Marlene's demise was her lips, all pink and glossy. Dorcas snorted, nodding at her comment.

“My dad would never though,” the black girl argued. “He pined for my mom for two years. She was working at this café to pay for college and he would come at every single one of her shift, sit for an hour and leave without a word. Eventually, he managed to grow some balls and asked her out. Been together ever since.”

“Whoa.” Mary smiled. “Absolute legend.”

“For real. Generally speaking though, most men suck.” She laughed. “I guess god truly has favorites, making me a lesbian and all.” Dorcas said, raising her cup to the sky. “Bless you, old man.”

WHAT?

THIS IS MAJOR. MARLENE, SHE’S GAY. YOU LITERALLY HAVE NO EXCUSES NOW.

SAY IT. DO THE THING.

“Haha, clearly.” God, Marlene, you’re useless. “So,” she nudged the girl, playfully. “Gay, huh? Slay.”

I’m killing myself. I’m taking this vodka bottle and smashing it on my head.

“Slay?” Dorcas laughed. “Are you playing ally?”

“No! I’m…” Marlene pinched her nose, desperate, then: “I’m a full-on lesbian too. Like, big time.” She gave Dorcas a thumbs up.

Who the hell talks like this?

Dorcas couldn’t stop grinning. “So, now that this has been cleared…” Taking a step closer, gently brushing Marlene’s cheek, “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Wait, for real?”

“It’s been fun to watch you panic, but it’s getting harder and harder for me not to kiss you.”

“Yes, please. Take me on a date.” Another step closer. Dorcas leaned in, a whisper away from her mouth. “Yeah? You’d like that?” Marlene nodded and, with a confidence that she wasn’t aware of possessing, she finally closed the space between them to kiss the girl she’s been crushing on for months.

SIRIUS

See, Sirius had had his fair share of drama with girls before. However, never had he managed to get slapped in the middle of a song right after actually kissing the girl in question. Whatever Crouch said to Mary must have been pretty bad. He could have gone and comfort her, but he gathered that the special task force formed by James, Dorcas, Marlene and Lily was more than enough.

“Well, that was something,” Remus said, eyes trailing on the stairs that Evan had just climbed to run after Barty. “Never been that glad to be gay honestly.”

Sirius snorted, glancing at the boy next to him. “Yeah. That was intense.” He paused. “Do you think Barty is still alive?”

“Dunno. Evan can definitely throw a punch.”

“True. Barty’s mental though.”

“Double homicide?”

“Seems more likely.” Remus smirked. He then stopped dead in his tracks, frowning. “Is that?”

“What?” Sirius said, following his movement. “Regulus?”            

Yup. Regulus Arcturus Black, in all his glory, now coming down the stairs, back straight, shoulders stiff, resting bitch face on. You could never mistake him for someone else. He blinked, watching as his little brother handed a key to…James?

What the fuck?

“Right. Well, I’m going out for a smoke,” Remus decided, nudging Sirius. “You comin?”

“In a bit, yeah.”

He couldn’t just ignore the fact that his little brother was standing here. Throwing back his drink, he then proceeded to march over him, feet less steady than He would like them to be.

“Regulus!” He called, grinning. The younger black jumped out, clearly startled by Sirius’ appearance.

“Sirius.” He replied, tone neutral.

“So…,” Sirius shuffled attempting some sort of cool, hand gesture, “What’s up?”

“Are we really doing this?”

“Yes?” He paused. “Maybe? Dunno. What is this?”

“You’re completely drunk.” His brother didn’t bother to hide the judgement in his voice.

Sirius scoffed. “It’s called having fun, Reggie.”

“Don’t call me that.” He cut him off, abruptly, before: “Fun. Yes, the world is just your own, private party isn’t it?”

“Better than a pity one.”

 The brief look of hurt on his brother’s face immediately made him regret that. He nodded and, as he was brushing past him: “Have a good night Sirius.”

“Wait! Reg!” He stuttered, blocking him so that he couldn’t go any further. “I-I didn’t mean that.”

“We’ve had the same education. You know damn well what words mean.”

“Alright now, no need to be such a smartass.”

“Pot meets kettle.”

I could use some, he thought. Wonder if Remus has any. 

“So, why are you here?” He said, completely changing the subject.

“Why not.”

“No but like…who are you here with?”

“None of your business.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. “Oh for fuck sake can you stop being so difficult?”

Regulus pursed his lips. Sirius sighed heavily. He didn’t know how this all happened. When they were kids, they could talk for hours on end, making forts under covers and doing impressions of their annoying relatives. Regulus would come to him for everything: when he felt sad over a dead bird he’d seen in the garden, or angry at their mother, excited over a book…Just anything, really. Now, they couldn’t hold a simple conversation.

You know how it happened.

“Barty Crouch and Pandora Lovegood. That’s who I came with.” Regulus said, eventually. Which, honestly, kind of made sense. Well, not the Pandora part. Sirius knew they had been friends forever but it never made sense to him. She was so bubbly and energetic, cheerful and kind. Very much a variation of James in that regard. Barty, however? That, he could fathom. He’d die before he’d admit, but the fact that a new guy came up and instantly became friend with his brother was a tough pill to swallow. As far as he had noticed, Regulus never engaged with new people. He had a limited circle and didn’t go out of his way to expand it.

He wanted to say all of this. But somehow, all that escaped his mouth was, “I didn’t know you were friends with Barty.”

“You wouldn’t exactly be the one to know anything about what’s going on in my life.”

Which, fair enough. But ouch?

It was easy to pretend that the situation with his brother didn’t sting when he wasn’t around. This was a violent reality check.

“He’s good as football,” Sirius commented. What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know how to talk to his brother, how to be casual. This was ridiculous.

“I’ve gathered as much at the game.”

“Wait, what?” Sirius blinked. “You came to the game?”

Regulus looked at him like he was the dumbest person on earth. “No I’m just reading your mind.”

Sirius didn’t even care to comment on this. He was solely focused on the fact that Regulus had come to see him play. Well, not directly, but still. He felt himself relax. This was familiar territory. That, he could work with.

“Remember when we used to play together?” He asked with a small smile.

“I was terrible at it.”

“Oh yes, but you were bloody fast.” Sirius snorted. “You did break a window once though.”

“You took the blame for it too.”

“To be fair, I was looking for any reason to piss mother off.”

Regulus nodded. “Right. Well, I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!” Why are you trying to run from me so bad? “Don’t you want a drink or something? Chat some more?”

Regulus closed his eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“What?” Sirius frowned in utter confusion. “Do what?”

“Play pretend. I can’t act like nothing happened. I can’t have you treat me like some random relative that you haven’t seen in a while and you’re happy to catch up with. It hurts.”

“Bu-but..”

“Goodbye.” This time, he didn’t give Sirius a chance to hold him back.

REMUS

Remus was not a religious guy, but thank god for cigarettes. Not only did they calm him down, they also never failed him when he needed to get away from something. Going out for a smoke was and would forever remain the perfect excuse.

He didn’t mind parties, but unlike James or Sirius (or any of their friends, really) Remus wasn’t in possession of an infinite amount of social energy. His tended to ran out quickly, and stepping out for a moment to isolate himself was the only way to recharge it. That’s when being a smoker came in handy. He could just leave an interaction, no questions asked.

“Mooooooonyyyyy!” Sirius launched himself on the bench, where Remus was currently enjoying one fag too many. So much for his peace of mind. Although, if anyone was ever allowed to disturb him, it was Sirius. Remus would never run out of energy for him.

“You alright there Pads?” He asked, with a smile tugging on his lips. “You seem even more pissed than when I left you.”

“Yeah well,” the boy shrugged. “There was a full on conversation with my little brother between then and now.” Remus arched his brow as Sirius leaned towards him, his face worryingly close to his. Remus had learnt to remain indifferent in these situations, but that was only externally speaking. He could feel his heart beating every time Sirius got close to him. But it was never that deep, not for him, and after stealing the cigarette hanging from Remus’ lips, the boy pulled away, casually.

God. How he hated him. So fucking much.

“Hide yourself from James, please.” Remus ordered, not in the mood to get told off by James because he let Sirius smoke.

“S’okay.” He took a puff, exhaling loudly. Sirius was such a poser when he smoked. A smoking hot poser, but still. “D’you know he had given a key to Regulus? What’s that about?” Another puff. “That little brat of a brother.”

“Probably nothing.” Remus nudged him with a smirk. “It’s a family thing then, uh?”

 “Hey!” Sirius snorted. “I’m not a brat.” He pouted. “Am I?”

“Kind of, but…” Remus blew smoke on his face, “in a charming way.”

Remus felt the boy’s moving. Before he knew it, there was a weight on his shoulder, and the tickling feel or hair brushing against his neck. Sirius was resting his head on him, ever so casually. That’s the thing: this was normal behavior for Sirius. What merely stirred him was the equivalent of a knife to the heart for Remus.

“You’re charming, Moony.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Remus knew better than to push it, really. But having Sirius like that just felt so, so good. This was just a feverish drunk act, but it was still something, the closest Remus would ever get to the real thing. He was allowed to play pretend, right? A little bit of escapism never hurt anybody.

Except it did. Every time. And every goddamn time, Remus let it consume him.

“Yeah?” He said, pretending to sound confident. His heart was racing like crazy. Fuck, he was lucky that organs could not talk. This would be an absolute shit-show. “How so?”

Compliment me. Praise me. Please. Anything. I’ll take the most useless comment and turn it into the confession of a lifetime. Please.

“How so, how so,” Sirius sung, giggling. “Well, in every way, ya know? Just…everything about your…person. Sometimes, I wonder why you even hang out with me. Like James is amazing but…he would hang out with the worst person in the world if he had to, you know ? Just…so kind….but you… » Pause. « What’s in it for you? You’re so smart and…you just get things. People. You keep quiet, you observe. You don’t search for the attention but it finds you anyway cause…jeez. Your words could kill yet you never…you’re never mean to me. You’re so unbelievably amazing, Moony.”

Da-dum, da-dum. Shut the fuck up, heart.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him, he thought.

But he did. Slowly, he tilted his head, hoping to sneak a yearning glance at Sirius. But when he looked down, the boy was already staring at him.

Da-dum da-dum da-dum.

Remus gulped. He was wracking his brain for something to say, a joke, whatever, a snarky comment, but he was absolutely paralyzed. The sight of Sirius’ red cheeks, glossy eyes and slightly chapped lips, his disheveled curls, his…

“…eyes.”

“What ?” He blinked. “I-I didn’t catch that.”

“‘said you have pretty eyes.” Sirius smiled. “Cinnamon…gingerbreadish…your eyes…” Pause. “Your eyes feel like Christmas. You have Christmas eyes, Moony.”

This is it. He’s going to kiss me.

Sirius leaned in and stopped at the last moment, staring at his lips. The world stood still. Remus had dreamt of this very moment so many times it was nothing short of embarrassing. He was about to close his eyes when Sirius let out:

“If you were a girl, I’d date you in a second Moony.”

A crash. A literal crash. Remus had just been pushed from a skyscraper, except only his heart touched the concrete. Externally, he was fine. Inside, he was in pieces.

“I-I gotta go.” He jumped out, leaving a confused Sirius behind, calling out his name. He couldn’t bear to see him. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t see anyone. He needed to be alone.

Chapter Text

BARTY

The morning after the party, Barty woke up with a mild headache and a fuzzy brain. He wasn’t necessarily tired; not at all, actually. He had been raised to be up early. His father would never let him sleep in. This was peak laziness to sir Crouch.

For that reason, Barty didn’t have any issues getting out of his bed. A single ring of his alarm clock was enough to get him up and moving. He immediately went down to the kitchen to greet his father and his stepmom, mainly to prove to them that yes, he was awake. Usually, once this was done, he had some time to himself before he was asked to go anywhere or do anything. Might as well get it over with quickly.

To his surprise, when he entered the kitchen, no one was there. He looked around the other rooms, without success. They had left.

Guess I’m on my own then.

To be fair, it wasn’t unlike them to go somewhere without telling him, and it didn’t change much anyway. At least, Barty was free to do whatever he wanted for a while. Except he didn’t feel like doing anything in particular. Not on his own, anyway. He couldn’t be bothered to go for a run, nor do some reading. Maybe later. But it was barely 9am. This was a lot of hours to fill. 

With a sigh, Barty decided to text Regulus to ask him to hang out. However, to his annoyance, the boy told him he had family obligation and was, therefore, busy all day. “Against my will,” he did add. Barty believed him. If Regulus just wanted to be alone, he would have said so. They were aware of each other’s boundaries and thus, always spoke frankly. However, this meant that Barty could  definitely count on no one but himself to occupy his dreadful Saturday.

I guess a shower would be a start.

---

Around 12pm, Barty’s internal monologue was interrupted by a loud ping. He expected to see Regulus' name on his screen, or perhaps Pandora (which would be surprising, but still.) However, he was met with a nameless sender.

unknown: how’s the hangover?

A deep frown appeared on his forehead as he clicked on the profile picture to make some sense of the situation. He was both surprised and unsurprised to be met with the sight of a wry smile and a blue gaze piercing right through him. The more time passed, the more Barty expected to run into Evan Rosier, to cross path with his annoying face. It seemed the blond was never that far from him, no matter the fucking situation.

B: You’ve just made it worse actually.

unknown: didn’t know that I had that much power over you

unknown: I’m flattered

Barty rolled his eyes heavily and set his phone aside, choosing not to answer. He certainly wasn’t about to endorse Evan’s words. Then came a second notification:

unknown: for real though, I hope you’re okay.

B: Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.

unknown: what

B: It’s a quote.

unknown: Oh right  

unknown: you know, most people would just go for a simple yes or no

B: Thank you.

unknown: you’re so insufferable

B: Again, thank you.

About twenty minutes later, Barty got yet another text:

unknown: I looked it up

unknown: the quote

B: Impressive.

unknown: no wonder you like this guy

B: 'This guy', he says casually.

unknown: no wonder you like this guy called Oscar Wilde.

B: Better.

unknown: he’s pretentious as fuck

unknown: but in a funny way

unknown: basically what I’m saying is you stole your entire personality from him

B: I was never imprisoned though.

unknown: just a matter of time honestly

unknown: reckon it’ll be something like tax fraud

B: I’m thinking first degree murder.

unknown: don’t threaten me with a good time ;) 

Barty snorted. He then took a minute to dwell on the fact that he had just laughed at a text from Evan Rosier. Being bored was really starting to mess with his mind. He really needed to do something with his day. He turned off his phone and left it on the table. Fortunately, the rest of his day ended up being quite easy. He read for a bit before he decided to rearrange his entire library which lead to him skimming through a billion of books and losing any sense of time. At around 6pm, his father and step mom came back. Barty sat diligently and ate dinner whiles listening to his stepmom rant about people he didn’t know about, gave his father a complete report of his grades so far and finally excused himself to go back to his room. He collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling. A slight lump in his pocket suddenly reminded him of the existence of his phone. He turned it back on. Before he could digest it, his fingers clicked on his conversation with Rosier. Pinching his lips, he then lingered on his profile photo, as if it were about to come to life suddenly. His eyes slid to the "add to contacts" button below.

It's not that deep.

He clicked.

Ten minutes later, the inside of his pocket vibrated.

rosier: well well well

B: ?

rosier: you’ve registered my number

B: I haven’t.

rosier: I can see your profile picture now

B: So?

rosier: I couldn’t before cause I wasn’t

rosier: it’s a default setting thing

rosier: technology has betrayed you

B: Whatever.

rosier: what do you have me under

B: The plague.

rosier: come on, you can do better

B: Parasite.

rosier: boring

B: Actually, it’s just your last name.

B: Bold of you to think I’d put any effort into it.

Barty waited. Evan didn’t text anything back which, really, didn’t matter. But he was bored. At least, that’s how he justified the fact that he sent a double text:

B: What do you have me under?

rosier: guess

B: No.

rosier: it’s a noun

B: I’m not playing your game.

rosier: six letters

B: Still not playing.

rosier: rhymes with your last name

 B: I’ll block your number.

rosier: come ooon

B: I don’t know. Avouch?

rosier: no???

rosier: tf does that even mean

B: To assert.  

rosier: how is this the first word that came to you

B: I give up.

rosier: that’s hardly playing

B: Cry me a river.

rosier: it’s Barty Grouch

rosier: get it

B: Clever.

rosier: with a dagger emoji next to it

rosier: wanna know why?

B: Does it matter if I don’t?

rosier: it’s because of your eyes

rosier: you’re always sending daggers through them

B: This is a generalization based on your personal experience.

rosier: so what you’re saying is that I’m special?

B: Especially annoying.

rosier: still makes me unique though

B: I guess.

rosier: saving this

If he had to be honest, Barty truly wished he didn’t have to go back to school on Monday. Obviously, there was the Mary incident but, call him an asshole, this wasn’t his main concern. Yes, it could have gone better but, in the end, he did manage to turn her down. It was about the results, right? No, his main concern was Evan Rosier. Or, rather, how he was going to act around him. Ever since the party, Barty had been dealing with a shift towards the boy. Plain, unfiltered disdain was easy enough for him to manage. That was his brand. Now, however, things weren’t so clear-cut. He didn’t do well with complex emotions. He liked to operate on a very defined and limited set, had for years now. His friendship with Regulus and Pandora had already caused him quite the turmoil, but he had eventually managed to put some words on it and, when something could be named, it could be controlled. Evan didn’t give him the slightest sense of control and he did resent him for it. But that was only a small part of the equation. The rest was pure confusion. The scariest thing about it all was that Barty didn’t remember that much about the party. Yet, his interaction with Evan Rosier was engraved in his memory. Which made no sense cause it precisely happened when Barty was at his worst in terms of intoxication. He didn’t remember everything, obviously, and what he did wasn’t that precise either. What he could recall best were sensations; cold water and his t-shirt clinging to his skin, another weight on top of him, a pressure on his wrists, a warm hand against his cheek..

Barty remembered comfort, peace and solace. All states that he hadn’t been familiar with for years, all triggered by someone he had spent all day texting, someone that he used to hate and did still hate but differently. This was too complicated for him.

---

“Are you really going to give me the cold shoulder all day?” Barty sighed as he watched Pandora scribble on her book with a frown. They were sat in Mr Tonks’ class. She wasn’t even working on anything. The teacher had asked them to busy themselves with whatever till he was back, as he had gone out to print something for them.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated for what felt like the tenth time (it was the second time but Barty wasn’t used to apologies so this felt like having his teeth pulled out.) At this, the blonde girl finally looked up, though the expression on her face showed nothing but bitterness. A very rare and unsettling sight to behold on her usually bright and joyous demeanor.

“Why are you saying sorry to me?”

“Well, because you’re upset.”

“I’m not the one that you should be apologizing to.” She pouted. “What you did was really mean and disrespectful.”

“I was absolutely gone.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Alright.” He took out his phone, sighing. “What?” He mouthed as she still glared at him.

“Not over text.”

“But-" She shushed him out. "Fine. I’ll apologize in person.”

This got him a smile. “You’ll feel better afterwards, you’ll see.” Pandora said, softly. 

Barty was about to argue, but Mr Tonks made his return and the whole class fell silent. It truly was impressive that their teacher had managed to maintain such great authority without having to act like an asshole. The man was smart and he understood that respect went a long way: he respected the students and so they respected him in return.

“Alright now, people. The time has come for me to announce the new book that we‘ll be studying for the next month or so.” Their teacher made a dramatic pause. “Come on now, drumroll please!” They all obeyed. Barty merely brushed his fingertips on the desk. Mr Tonks took out a book and showed it to the class. “That’s right, we’re traveling back in time to Ancient Greece with Euripides’ Orestes. A good-old classic tragedy.” He paused, gauging the reactions of the students. “We’ll look at the original myth first as well as the traditional features of Greek tragedies, which is what I want to get to today. Next week, we’ll see how those play out in Euripides’ version of the story. You can get your copies at the local bookshop under my name. Try to read at least a couples of scenes till next time.”

He handed a pile of sheets to the first row. “Can you pass these on, please? Thank you. This is a short summary that I have made of the myth of Orestes. Obviously, it’s exceptionally written, so it would be a shame to not read it aloud now.” He joked, voice full of sarcasm. “Mr Crouch, please?”

Barty nodded. “The myth of Orestes.” Clearing his throat: “Orestes is the son of Agamemnon, king of Argos, and queen Clytemnestra. When Helen, the most beautiful of women, is kidnapped by Paris and taken to Troy, her husband, Menelaus, triggers the famous conflict that will become known as the Trojan War. Menelaus assembles a huge army which includes his brother – and Orestes’ father - Agamemnon. At the end of the war, Agamemnon comes back to discover that his wife has cheated on him with a certain Aegisthus. Shortly after, Agamemnon is murdered by the two lovers. On reaching manhood, Orestes is asked by the god Apollo to avenge his father’s death by killing his mother and Aegisthus. He obliges, but his crime quickly sends him into madness.”

“Thank you Mr Crouch. Now, with that in mind, can you identify some of the elements that make a tragedy?” This time, he was addressing the entire class.

“The characters aren’t common people.” Lily Evans intervened. “They’re kings, queens or at least linked to some sort of royalty.”

Mr Tonks nodded briskly and began writing on the blackboard. “That’s a key feature, indeed. Tragedies don’t deal with the stories or the emotional turmoil of the everyday man. It was considered a noble genre, as opposed to comedy. Thus, it told the lives of important people.” He turned around, now holding a chalk. “Excellent, Miss Evans. What else?”

“The stories are driven by fate.” Regulus suddenly spoke up. “The characters are faced with a destiny that has been imposed on them by the Gods. No matter what they do, they can’t escape it. That’s what makes it tragic.”

“Precisely, Mr Black.” He scribbled FATE in all caps then circled it. “Fate, destiny, doom, curse or predetermination. In a traditional Greek tragedy, the characters have either been or are forced by the gods to act in a certain way, or do specific things. Of course, they will try to fight it. Otherwise, there is no story. But inevitably, you can’t escape the gods, can’t you?” He paused again to lean on his desk, arms crossed. “Think of Oedipus. His story is the epitome of a Greek tragedy. Before he was even born, the gods had cursed him with a prophecy: he will kill his father and marry his mother. To avoid this, his parents gave him away to a shepherd and Oedipus was eventually adopted by King Polybus and Queen Merope. Yet, he still ended up fulfilling the prophecy, through a series of circumstances that I am not going to get into here.” He paused. “Orestes’ story is also driven by fate: Apollo orders him to kill both his mother and her lover.” He gave them a long look. “But does that make him innocent? Or Oedipus? After all, it’s not their fault, right? Or is there more to it? Are they fully passive? These are all questions that we will explore together, but I want you to think about it differently, first.”

Barty fought the urge to roll his eyes. Mr Tonks really, really liked to play with suspense. It was unbearable at times.

“I want you to think about it personally. Forget about these tragic heroes and mythology. What do you think about fate? Does it exist? If so, how? Is there such a thing as free will? There is no right answer. I am merely interested in your opinions and your abilities to defend them. So, for your homework, I want you to write a short essay on the subject of fate. Send it to me till Sunday, at the latest.”

---

MARY

Mary wasn’t used to people apologizing to her; mainly because she tended to be the one to fuck things up. She never meant to, of course. She was impulsive by nature and had the annoying tendency to say out loud whatever came into her head without proofreading the content with her brain first. She'd found herself in more than one shitty situation because of that, but it wasn’t that bad. She liked to tell herself that each group of friends had assigned roles: Marlene was funny and eccentric, Lily was sensible and mature and Mary the flirt with a messy love life. That’s just how it was.

Which is why she didn’t expect Lily Evans, of all people, to apologize to her.

“It was shitty. I literally invalidated what you were feeling and made you look stupid, and I’m really sorry about it.” She had said as they were waiting for their math teacher to arrive.

“Thank you. This actually means a lot, Lils.” Mary smiled. “I’m sorry I acted like a bitch.”

Lily shook her head. “Are you kidding me? You had every right to be mad. I would have burned the house to the ground.” She huffed. “What an asshole. How can a guy be so smart and so bloody stupid at the same time?”

Mary shrugged. “I don’t care that much for him anyway, it was more about…”

“Yeah, the situation.” She cut her off, giving her a soft look. “I know. I understand.” Pause. “I still want to key his car though.”

Mary snorted. “You know we won’t be able to get bubble teas in prison right?”

“Shit. You’re right.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll have to beat him academically.”

“Don’t disappoint me. My faith lays in your hands, nerd.”

“Oh I’ll destroy him for sure.”

So, yes, at first, Mary was surprised. But then, the more she thought about it, the more it made sense: Lily Evans, though she could be a real pain in the ass with her know-it-all attitude was, first and foremost, a great friend. Her best friend.

What she did not expect and made no fucking sense to her was the second apology she received that day. For a start, the time and place were absurd: lunchtime at the cafeteria. She was obviously eating with both Marlene and Lily, but a couple of the guys were here too. More specifically, James, Peter and Evan. Although, it was essentially two groups sitting at the same table. But still.

The point is that in that very specific setting, Mary would have never expected Barty fucking Crouch to come up to her. It was excruciatingly embarrassing. As soon as he'd arrived, the whole table had gone silent. You’d think he’d be the one to break it, but no. He was just standing there, waiting on some sort of cue. From the look on his face, you’d think there was an invisible gun pointed at his temple. Thankfully, Lily decided to speak up:

“You’re not welcome here, Crouch.”

The guy had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not inviting myself to lunch.” Well. Off to a good start. He turned his attention to Mary, biting the inside of his cheek. “Can I talk to you?”

“You can do it here, can’t you?” Lily, again.

He cleared his throat. “I’d rather talk to Mary in private.”

“Sounds like a you problem” Lily intervened, still glaring. Mary fought the urge to snort. One thing about her best friend: she never took shit from anyone. Now, Mary very much intended to talk to Barty. However, it was only fair to make him wait for it whiles getting bullied by Lily Evans.

“Well, it’s certainly not a you problem, despite how invested you are.” The boy replied to her, which had the redhead scoff. Mary could tell that she was about a second away from acting out. A fun prospect, but she didn’t have the energy to deal with it right now, which is why she calmed her down, shaking her head, “It’s okay, Lils. I’ll be a minute.” She got up and followed Barty’s steps. They stopped as soon as they were far enough to get some privacy. She instantly raised her chin as she crossed her arms defensively. “I’m listening.”

“Right.” The boy smacked his lips, glancing around uncomfortably. “I wanted to apologize for what I said to you at the party.” He paused, frowning, like an actor trying to remember his line. “It was uncalled for.”

“It really was.” She wasn’t about to make this easy for him. He could squirm till he passed out of exhaustion, for all she cared. This wasn’t even close to the humiliation that she had felt herself, but it was still something.

“I’m not denying it.” Christ, he really sucked at this.

She sighed, letting her arms fall. “I just don’t get it.” She said, truthfully. “Why would you agree to go out with me if you didn’t give a shit in the first place? Do you have a manipulation kink or something?”

“I-” He blinked. “No?”

“So what then?” There had to be a reason, even a fucking stupid one. “You were just bored?”

He glanced over at the table where her friends were sitting. “That’s not it.” His tone seemed sincere. “Alright. Do you want me to be honest?”

“If that’s not too much to ask, please.” She answered, sarcastically. He was getting on her nerves so bad.

“I knew about the bet.” Pause. “With Ev-,” he bit his lip, nervously, before continuing, “with Rosier. He dared you to ask me out, right?”

Mary had completely lost the plot. “The bet?” A blink. “Well, yeah, he did but,” she stuttered, “how in hell does that have to do with anything?”

Barty shrugged, as if the situation couldn't be more logical. “I thought it’d be…” he hesitated, “amusing, I guess. To prove him wrong.”

Was this part of an elaborate prank?

“Let me get this right…” she said, so close to having a full-on stroke. “You went on a date with me to spite Evan?”

He grumbled. “Obviously, when you put it like that…”

“It’s bloody mental! What the fuck is wrong with you? Like seriously?”

“Again, I apologize. Things got out of hands and I just,” he huffed, “I’m not good with that…stuff.”

“That stuff? Like normal, human behavior?” This was baffling.

“Actually, yes. Precisely.” There was no trace of humor in his voice. “You shouldn’t have been on the receiving end of it, and I regret that it happened.”

“I don’t even know what to say. That’s,” she blinked, “You’ve got issues, man.”

“Yeah, not denying that either.”

Mary frowned. She didn’t fully empathize with him she could at least tell that, even if he had acted like a jerk, at least it wasn’t personal. From what she could gather anyway.

I really dodged a bullet here.

“Right. Well, thanks for saying all that. It’s the bare minimum but I appreciate it.”

He nodded. “Well, I’ll see you around then.”

Mary watched as the boy went back to his table, still baffled by the exchange. At first, she had thought that Evan was the obssessed one, but it now seemed like it a reciprocated dynamic.

“Are you alright?”

Peter. She turned around, nodding briefly. “He apologized, actually.”

“Better than nothing, I guess.” He paused. “How do you feel?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Well, glad to hear that.” He tilted his head in the direction of their table. “You comin?”

“Yes but before, Peter…” she said, searching for her words, “I wanted to say sorry about the party.”

“What?” He seemed genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Me being high and annoying and,” God, this was awkward. She’d never felt awkward with him. “The kiss,” she finished.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Well, you’ve got nothing to feel bad about, it’s okay.”

“I hope I didn’t mess things up with Sybil?” She inquired, worryingly.

He frowned. “Sybil?” then, as it caught up to him: “Shit. Was I supposed to tell her? I didn’t think about it. I mean, we were both high and it was nothing so I just-“

“Alright, calm down,” she placed both of her hands on his shoulders. “Like you said, it was nothing, right?”

“Right!”

“Perfect.”

“Although, if I may…” she felt her heart skip a beat, for some reason, desperately waiting on his words. “It’s Barty’s loss. You’re a good kisser, and a catch in general.”

He’s being playful. That’s all.

He wants to make you feel better.

It’s not that deep.

Why am I even thinking about it?

She laughed, going along with the bit as they both went back to eat. Because, after all, it was nothing, right?

REMUS

It was unfair to avoid Sirius, Remus knew that. Yet, he couldn’t help it. He had managed to be cool about his crush for years, but he couldn’t cope anymore. Ever since the party, merely being in the same room as Sirius felt like crashing down.

“If you were a girl, Moony…”

The worst thing that he could have ever said to him. To know that the only thing standing between him and Sirius was the fact that he had been born a boy. Remus would have liked to spend the rest of his in ignorance. Sirius had been honest in the cruelest way possible. But it wasn’t his fault, right?

No. But Remus still resented him.

Remus wondered if Sirius even picked up on the fact that he was acting differently. Secretly, a part of him hoped he did. The other was too busy hating himself for thinking that Sirius had been about to kiss him at the party.

“Earth to Remus?”

Remus looked up from his book, startled. Lily was staring at him, a frown on her face. They were currently studying at the Holy Bean. Marlene had a shift but Remus was off.

“Sorry. Got distracted.” He yawned.

“Are you alright?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem off.” Lily said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing though. I’ll get over it.”

“Right. Well, as I was saying, Mary’s nearby and she asked me if she could join us. You don’t mind do you?” Remus shook his head, which send the redhead typing on her phone.

---

Remus only realized his miscalculation a little too late, when Mary entered the place closely followed by Sirius. That’s what you get for having all of your friends be part of the same group.

Fuck my life.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. Obviously, he was not going to avoid Sirius forever, but this was too soon and, mostly, unplanned. He couldn’t look at him yet. They weren’t enough people.

“Hiyaa!” Mary sat next to Lily, taking out her books.

“Moony!” Sirius beamed, which broke Remus’ heart for more than a few reasons. He was completely oblivious which, on one hand, was good, but on the other, Remus was disappointed that he didn't notice anything wrong. 

“If you were a girl…”

“I have to go check something with Marlene,” he got up abruptly. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

He didn’t give them any time to reply and rushed into the backroom. Marlene jumped and almost dropped everything in her hands.

“What the fuck? You scared the bloody shit out of me!”

“I need to hide here for a moment, please.” Remus said, as he slid down on the floor. Marlene gave him a worried look as she bend down to sit in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

“Can we just…not talk about it?” He pleaded.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “We won’t talk about it today. But I’m not letting you off the hook, alright?”

“Marls…” He started to protest.

“Either that or I’m kicking you out of here.”

“Fine.” He groaned, praying that she’ll forget about it tomorrow.

Regulus

Oniomania. The impulse to buy.

Regulus was quite the obsessive type when it came to possessing things. To him, there was a deep appeasement to be found in surrounding yourself with material items. He liked their reliability. Objects couldn’t really deceive you, could they? The couldn’t disappoint you, nor leave you. They were utterly consistent. Regulus liked consistency, when it came to everything in life, really. He was a collector of all sorts, but books were a top priority.

As soon as they were both done with their classes, Barty and him embarked on a journey to their local bookshop to retrieve their copies of Orestes. In reality, they both knew that this was merely a pretense to go buy books. But after all, they could be doing way worse shit with their money.

“So, what are your thoughts on it?” Reg asked, referring to the homework they had been assigned by Mr Tonks. They were currently browsing the poetry section with already a decent stack of books tucked under both of their arms. Barty glanced at him, pressing his lips together in a straight line, pondering.

“What do I think about fate?” He mimicked their teacher’s voice, sighing. “I mean, I do feel cursed. I have yet to decide if it’s on me or the gods though.” He shrugged. “What about you?”

“I feel like the fact that I was born a Black has very much sealed my destiny. At least, in part.” Regulus smiled drily. “Though, Sirius did manage to escape it.”

Barty scoffed. “Well, as far as we know. Maybe he’ll be bald at 25.”

Regulus let out a snort. “Funnily enough, that would probably constitute the biggest tragedy possible for him.”

“So is the state of his hair now for my eyes.”

Whether Barty actually meant it or not, Regulus knew why he was saying things like that. This was his way to comfort him. He was aware that Regulus’ interaction with Sirius at the party had taken a serious toll on him. But Barty wasn’t about whispering sweet nothings and giving warm embraces, and Regulus wouldn’t have it any other way. This, was good. Brushing things off by making fun of it. When a situation is ridiculed, its power to hurt is stripped away. Partly, at least.

Being friends with Barty might just be the easiest thing that Regulus had ever done.

---

When they left the shop, an hour and a hundred pounds later, Barty had to head home straightaway. Regulus, on the other hand, still had a couple of hours to kill before the risk to get scolded.

For someone that tended to live like a recluse, people would be surprised at how much Regulus actually appreciated nature. Truth is, he didn’t despise being outside, but he was picky about it. He didn’t like crowded places, busy shops or unnecessary noise. The local parc met all of those criteria. There was a much bigger one across town that families preferred to go to, and people in general. This left the local one rather deserted.

Regulus bought himself a coffee and immediately went to take his place, at his usual bench. Again, Regulus needed consistency. He took out one of his newly acquired books and, soon enough, the world around him disappeared in favor of a fictional one. He didn’t automatically go for feel good stories and could read about the most heart-shattering stuff without as much as a flinch. Any escapism was good escapism, really. That day’s pick was a well-enough written thriller that centered around a washed-up investigator and his obsession with a case all too personal for him. Nothing revolutionary but, again, any escapism was good escapism.

Usually, it would take at least an earthquake to bring him back to reality, as he was able to completely drown out the noise around him. However, he still felt things, which is how he couldn’t exactly ignore the dog that had just jumped onto his lap.

“Maurice! Get down!” A voice rang out.

Of course. It just had to, right? It couldn’t just be a random dog. See, this would be too subtle for the universe.

It had to be James Potter’s.

The dog obeyed, reluctantly, as Regulus adjusted himself and dusted some imaginary dust off himself. He looked up to find the boy with the glasses smiling sheepishly, hair a mess and dressed in gym clothing. 

“I am so sorry.” James said, now holding the animal by the collar. He pouted at the animal, putting on a baby voice. “I’m very upset, you know? You won’t get any treat tonight.”

“That’ll teach him for sure.” Regulus said, sarcastically.

The boy glanced up, frowning. “Are you saying that my dog is dumb?”

“Not dumber than every other dog.”

“Hey! They understand stuff!”

“Give me a sign when yours is able to provide me with the meaning of life then.”

At this, the boy’s mouth perked up, until he was full on grinning. “I will.”

“Right." Regulus smacked his lips. "Do you need something else?”

“Actually, I’m glad that I ran into you.” James nodded, slowly approaching the bench. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

Regulus blinked, utterly confused. James seemed very pleased by this. He watched him in amusement before he eventually took out a book from his bag.

“Here.”

“This…it’s your grandfather’s book?”

“Yup. I saw how curious you were at the party. I thought you’d like to read it.”

“That’s…very thoughtful.” Regulus forced himself to give some version of a smile. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to pretend.” Regulus blinked, as James added, smugly. “I’d rather get sincere smiles.”

“Don't hold your breath.”

“Don’t underestimate my charm.”

There is definitely not a single person in the world who does, he thought, though he remained quiet. Instead, he decided to focus his attention on the book. As he flipped through the pages, a piece of paper fell off. He picked it up, then gave James a confused stare.

“What is this?”

“Well, my number.” The boy answered, shrugging casually.

“Why?”

“To tell me when you’re done with the book, obviously. It’s more convenient.” He winked, which made Regulus blushed instantly. “I’ll leave you to it now. I need to get that bad boy home, right Maurice?” The dog barked in response. “See you around, Regulus.”

The younger Black watched as the boy ran away, like it was no big deal. He could feel his heart beating.

James Potter had been walking around with a book for him. James Potter had given him his number.

He looked at the paper again, making sure this wasn’t a hallucination. Then, with a sigh, he carefully tucked it back in the book.  

James’ number.

Barty

As he was walking home from the bookshop, Barty decided that it had been, contrary to his beliefs, a relatively good day. He had made amends with the whole Mary situation (which meant that Pandora was pleased) and bought new books. While having to make a public apology had probably taken years off his life, he took comfort in the fact that peace was now restored.

“Wait up, Crouch!”

But it was a truth universally acknowledged that Barty couldn’t take a fucking break, wasn’t it?

He stopped dead in his tracks, knowing damn well who that voice belonged to. Surely enough, when he turned around, he was met with the too familiar sight of Evan Rosier. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked right away, as he noticed that the blonde moved to stand next to him.

The boy shrugged. “Walking home.”

“Do you have to do that next to me?”

“The road belongs to everybody.”

“What if I don’t want you next to me?”

“Walk faster.”

“You’re the one disturbing my peace, you walk faster.”

“Nah, I’m pretty knackered.”

“Fine." He rolled his eyes. "But I’m not chitchatting with you.”

“We’ll walk in silence then.”

...which lasted for about two seconds before Evan started to whistle. 

Barty clenched his fists, fantasizing about them meeting Evan's face. “This is not silence.”

Evan kept whistling with an innocent grin. “It’s background noise. It’s no different than the cars around or the wind.”

“It’s a nuisance.” Barty bit back, hoping to sound somewhat menacing. 

‘Stop using pretty words if you actually want to hurt my feelings.’

I don’t want too, he thought.

“Sometimes it’s more about educating you.” 

“How thoughtful.” Evan nodded at him. “Go on then.”

“What?”

“Educate me.”

“I didn’t…”

“Come on. Blind me with your knowledge about language. Or is that too challenging for you?”

Barty clenched his teeth in defeat. “Fine. Give me a word.”

“Mhh…what about,” Evan smacked his lips, which had Barty’s gaze drop instantly to his mouth, “dolphin?”

“Came to us via the French dauphin, which itself came from Latin. But initially, it’s a Greek word.” He paused, trying to remember, though it merely took him a second. “Delphys. Means womb. Most people think it has to do with their appearance.”

“Like their bellies?” Barty nodded. “I can see that. That’s pretty cute.” Evan nudged him, sending an electric touch through his spine. “Another one.”

“Give me a word then.”

“You choose one. Like, one of your favorites, or something.”

“Do you know about maudlin?” Evan shook his head. “It basically describes the sort of state where you feel sorry for yourself and you’re sulking, especially after you’ve drank a lot of alcohol.”

“Soppy, kind of?”

“Exactly. Anyway, it refers to Mary Magdalene. She’s a saint from the Bible. She was a disciple of Jesus and rumored to have been a prostitute before she turned her life around.” He cleared his throat. “Traditionally, she’s depicted weeping in paintings, hence the meaning of maudlin.”

“I like that.” Evan frowned, tilting his head down. “I wish I knew about stuff like that.”

“It’s nothing extraordinary, just facts.”

“Still. Can’t help but feel a bit dumb sometimes.”

Barty shrugged, unable to find something to say. 

“So, Peter told me you apologized to Mary?” Without any answer, Evan added: “It’s cool.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“I knew there was some sort of dark magic going on.” He joked. “Well, you did it anyway.” Again, Barty didn’t reply, which lead to Evan speaking again: “Maybe Mary’ll come around. I don’t know what you said to her exactly but-“

This caused him to stop abruptly. “What do you mean come around?”

Evan blinked. “If you still want to go out with her, you know.”

“Why would you think that?” His tone was bitter, all of a sudden.

“I just assumed...”

“Stop assuming.”

“Why are you upset?”

“Mind your business, Rosier.”

Barty started to walk faster, putting some distance between them and very much intending to get rid of him. He hadn't expected Rosier to stop him. So far, this technique had always worked. But the blond caught up with him in a few steps and planted himself directly in front of him, blocking his path. The move was so swift that Barty bumped into him, chest to chest. A simple touch, yet enough to bring him back to the bathroom at James's house. It was familiar; his touch was familiar, where all others - even Pandora’s or Regulus’ - felt alien to Barty. How could something so foreign feel so much like home, he didn’t know. Why, was an even scarier question to ask himself.

He glared at the boy. “Move.”

“Make me.” Evan replied, an eyebrow raised. “Do I need to remind you of what happened last time you tried to fight me, Crouch?” He took a step, amused. Barty could not see anything remotely funny about the situation. “I mean, I could go for a shower right now.”

Red flushed his cheeks, instantly. He froze. 

Flashes.

His back pushed against the tile, a pressure on his wrists, a body towering over his, wet shirt clinging to his chest.

“Are you okay?”

A hand on his cheek. A soft stroke.

“Why are you doing this?” 

“M’tired of you walking away.” Evan said, truthfully. “As of recently, I’ve decided to stop it from happening again.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

Barty couldn’t help it. Before he could do anything to prevent it, he felt the corner of his mouth perk up. It lasted briefly, but it still didn’t escape Evan’s attention.

“Don’t mention it.”

Evan gave him an innocent look. “Wasn’t going to before you just did.” The bastard.

Evan Rosier surely had the most slappable face, but it was even worse when he was that proud of himself. It was startlingly easy to get lost in the boy’s features, as Barty had found. Somehow, his gaze kept coming back to it, always finding new details to fixate on. That day, his mind decided to focus on his freckles. They were sparse and mostly spread around his nose and temples. Too little to notice, almost. Maybe, if Barty traced them all with a sharpie, he would unlock some kind of secret shape that would make him understand Evan Rosier, understand the effect he had on him.

“Impossible.” He repeated, eventually.

“Learning from the best.”

“I-”

Barty was cut short by a car pulling up beside them. He was instantly met by the face of his stepmother, with her usual camera smile.

“Coming home, Bartemius?” This wasn’t exactly a question, more of an implicit invitation to get into the car. She barely glanced at Rosier who, in return, only nodded politely.

“Yes,” he replied, making his way to the front door. Before he could reach the handle, the boy called back:

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Crouch.”

You will.

“Who was that?” Her stepmom asked, pulling into their driveway.

“Some player from the team.”

“Name?”

“Rosier.”

“Does not ring a bell.” Of course, she would say something like that. Rosier didn’t have anything to offer in her book, he wasn’t part of the pseudo aristocracy of the town. For a second, Barty felt the urge to defend the boy. He braced himself, as it would have been both pointless and weird.

Later on, as he was sat at his desk, mindlessly studying, he kept replaying Evan’s words about himself, over and over again.

“Can’t help but feel a bit dumb sometimes.”

The words swirled around, ringing in his ears, desperate to escape his body. They clung to him, travelling through his chest to end in his hands, urging them to take out his phone and send a text.

B: I don’t think you’re dumb.

B: If you text something back I’ll block you.

Barty couldn’t see it, of course, but somewhere across town and laying in his bed, Evan Rosier was grinning, his face only lit by the screen of his phone.

Chapter Text

BARTY

They were in James Potter’s bathroom, the noises of the party downstairs echoing through the not-so-thick walls like small ricochets. The air feels like the inside of a roman bath, hot and steaming. They’re standing, face to face, eyes deeply sunk into each other’s.

“I could go for a shower right now.” Evan muttered, wetting his upper lip.

“Yeah?” Barty said, the words barely making it out of his mouth.

The blonde nodded. “Yeah.”

Evan took a step forward, looking him up and down. He licked his lips again, something close to a menace dancing in his pupils. “Would you mind?”

Barty didn’t know how to answer, but he didn’t have to, considering Evan’s lips crashed into his before he could utter a single word. It was harsh and hurried. They stumbled against the wall as Evan forcefully grabbed his neck to deepen the kiss. Barty whined in pain, though the sound was cancelled by everything else that was going on. It was impossible to tell whose sound, whose moan belonged to who. 

“You’re so infuriating, you know that?” Evan whispered in between touches, gasping for air. He started to nibble on his neck which brought shivers down Barty's spine. 

“You’re welcome,” was all he could come up with before Evan grabbed his wrist. He stared at him, scorning. 

"I'm being serious." He shook his head then, with a sour laugh, “I bet you wish this was real.”

“What?” This made Barty stop dead in his tracks to glance at the boy in pure confusion. Evan just smirked, shaking his head again in disdain.

“You’re such a coward, Crouch.”

Barty blinked and, soon enough, Evan’s face was replaced with the sight of his bedroom. It took him a second to get his bearings. It was still dark outside and a quick glance at his phone made this self-explanatory: 5 am.

He touched his neck, gulping. His throat felt like sand.

When he was younger, Barty had night terrors. He would often wake up in the middle of the night, sweating like a madman. This became worse after his mother’s death. Eventually, his father had forced him to go see a therapist. Not that he was an advocate for mental health, more so afraid that Barty was going crazy like his wife.

Mrs Thomas had been a nice, caring woman. In fact, if it hadn’t been for them moving out, Barty would have loved to keep seeing her. She was helpful, truly. She gave him advice, taught him to deal with his feelings and communicate them. All that precious work had of course been long destroyed since. Although not entirely.

Barty particularly remembered one of her techniques, one that had to do with his numerous nightmares at the time.

“When you’re dreaming, your brain fully takes control,” she had said. “Your body is asleep. In a way, it is a form of dissociation. One that we all experience, of course, and it’s not an issue in and of itself. However, experiencing a nightmare of any kind in that setting can be profoundly unsettling. You’re simultaneously struggling with the aftermaths of said bad dream as well as the confusion of waking up, period.” She offered him a smile. “In such moments, it helps to reconnect with your surroundings as quickly as possible.”

“How?” He had asked, face down.

“Well, by asking yourself these questions: where am I, and what time is it. This will ground you, even just a little bit. Once this is done, you’ll need to ground yourself physically by operating a complete rundown of your body. How does my mouth feel? My eyes? My neck? I’m talking head to toes. The more you’ll progress, the more secured you’ll feel.” She had knelt, voice full of tenderness. “Can you try to do that for me next time, Barty?”

He could. He had. Eventually, his nightmares became less and less frequent, till the day where he managed to sleep through an entire night soundingly.

He hadn’t used this technique in a while. But, as he laid there, heart pounding in his chest, it came back to him instinctively.

“I’m in my room.” Deep breath. “It’s five fifteen in the morning.” Another deep breath.  “My head feels heavy, like someone’s been crashing my forehead. My eyes…”

Body part by body part, muscle by muscle, Barty reconnected himself to the world around him. Eventually, when he arrived to the lower half of his body, he froze completely. A sudden heat rose to his cheeks, as his heart pace began to quicken.

He recognized the sensation, of course. He wasn’t a monk. It wasn’t the…thing in itself that was the problem, but the cause for it.

Yes.

Barty was hard.

Barty had a full-on boner.

Barty had dreamt of Evan Rosier, dreamt of kissing him, touching him, being touched by him…

Barty had thought about Evan Rosier in such a way that he had woken up with an erection.

“FUCK” he screamed, though he muffled the noise in his pillow.

SIRIUS

While this may sound surprising to some people – that is, everyone -, Sirius was actually well aware of his flaws. He knew he could be a lot. Hell, he had been told this to his face verbatim. Actually, it might have even been the first words his parents ever said to him. At the time and for a while, he had made sure to not only avoid making any effort to change that but also exacerbating it any way he could. That had been his motto: if you don’t like me, I’ll make sure you hate me. Simple enough.

This was all fun and games until he came across people whose love and appreciation he desperately sought. You can’t walk around and act like a cunt when, suddenly, you have something to lose. Someone. The first person to trigger that radical change in him was James, obviously. However, soon enough, James had assured him that he liked him just the way he was, and he didn’t have to change anything.

“Don’t ever make yourself small around me, Pads.”

Eventually, everyone he hung out with accepted it too. Sure, he could be a pain in the ass, but that was his charm; just like self-righteousness was Lily’s or an awful inclination for terrible remixes was Peter’s. To be honest, Sirius often took advantage of the fact that he knew his actions rarely had consequences.

…Which is why he would end up totally helpless when that wasn’t the case.

…Which is why he had been sulking about for a week now: Remus was mad at him, and he had no clue has to why that was or how to change it. Sirius was terrible at apologizing in general. It would have been fine, had it been James, or Peter, or anyone else for that matter. Anyone but Remus bloody Lupin.

You know the saying about one being an open book? Well, in that regard, Remus was a book full of secret state codes kept under lock and key by the CIA in a bunker six feet underground accessible only by fingerprint (the Queen’s or some shit). The ways of his heart were fucking inscrutable.

“He’ll come around,” had been Pete’s advice about the situation. Which, yeah, probably.

Except Sirius needed him to come around now. He needed him, period. He missed him.

He missed him. Not that he was gone or anything, as they were still seeing each other every day, but something was off. Remus was being distant, always making excuses to not be left alone with him. This made it hard to try and talk to him, so much so that Sirius was almost toying with the idea of a kidnapping. He was more than capable of it and the gods above knew it, which is probably why they decided to give him a hand. A big, almost too good to be true hand.

They were in the study hall to work on a group project for science: James, Peter, himself and Remus. Initially, Sirius was to leave around 2pm because of a dentist appointment while the other boys would stay behind. That, was the plan.

“I’m knackered,” James yawned. “Think I’ll probably head back home when you go, Pads.” He poked Remus. “Would you mind?”

“Hum, I would mind?” Peter interrupted. “Why’s no one asking me?”

“The only reason you’d mind,” Remus started with an eyeroll, “is because you’d actually have to start working if it’s just us two.”

“Excuse you? I’ve done nothing but work today.”

“Safe for the two coffee breaks or the ones to take a leak, and the important texts that absolutely couldn't wait, yes.”

“Now that’s foul.”

“It’s alright, I’ll stay.” James, the angel that he was. “You’re right Pete, it’s not fair.”

“Nah, don’t bother.” Remus shrugged. “We’re almost done anyway. You guys go and I’ll finish it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Ugh, Moony, the man that you are!” Peter gasped, trying to smack an unnecessarily loud kiss on top of Remus’ head. The latter saw it coming and swiftly pulled away whiles making a face.

“Don’t mention it, jeez.”

Sirius didn’t think about it straightaway. For about five minutes, as they all got back to work to make the most out of their time left together, he remained focused.

Then, it struck him.

Remus would be here, alone, with no excuses to go away this time.

What’s a cavity, anyway? A tiny, tiny little cavity? Exactly.

---

At 1.50, the boys gathered their stuff and as planned, left the hall after bidding their goodbyes to Remus. Once outside, Sirius left James and Peter as he pretended to head for the town center. He hid himself in a corner and waited patiently until they reached James's car, started it up, and then returned to the building. He returned to the study hall with his heart pounding but quickly settled down once he found that Remus hadn't moved.

Bingo.

“Change of plan,” he blurted, tossing his things nonchalantly. “I'd got the date wrong for the appointment.” Shrug. “So, where were we?”

 “I- Are you sure?” Remus stammered.

“Yup, just called.” Sirius had canceled the appointment, but that wasn't the point. The point was that one of his best friends was making him feel like a hostage taker, so much so that he would have preferred to be anywhere but with him right now. “I shall have to suffer a little longer, fortunately this exciting science project is here to distract me.” He threw out sarcastically.

"I can do it by myself. Really." Remus looked away, suddenly enthralled by the design of his pen.

“I know you can, oh great Moony whose intelligence will bury us all, whose charisma is matched only by his honed cynicism, and...”

“I don't need help.” Remus protested again; his head still bowed. He refused to look at Sirius directly.

“All right,” Sirius shrugged, trying to keep his detached attitude, even though he could feel his chest tightening more and more. "Then I'll stand by and admire you in silence. If you go premium, I can add the out loud option."

“Stop that.” His tone was drier. Sirius knew Remus, knew how to recognize the first signs of his impatience. Normally, he would have backed up and stayed quiet. But here? For the first time in a week and a half, he was at least entitled to a reaction. Granted, a bad one, but still: annoyance, however heavy, was better than indifference and the cold distance that seemed to have settled between them.

“Okay. How bout that,” Sirius leaned in, fully invading the other boy’s space. “I’ll stop if you stop, Remus.” At last, this comment made him look up.

Finally.

“What do you mean stop? Stop what?”

“Treating me like a stranger.” Before the other boy could interrupt him, Sirius went on: “Don’t say you haven’t, please. Just tell me what I’ve done! I’ve been racking my brain like a maniac but I-I ca-,” he sighed. “You know what I like about you, Moony?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You never sugarcoat it. You're not afraid to say things, even if it rubs people the wrong way. You're always like…no bullshit, right? Well, I need that Remus right now.” He paused but only shortly, to take his breath. “I can take it.”

“Sirius…”

“What I can’t take, however, is the fact that I might have hurt you. I don’t want to lose you, or us, Moony.”

Remus opened his mouth, but he didn’t utter a sound. He shook his head, still silent.

“Moony.” Sirius slid his hand across the table, stopping right in front of Remus'. He gently ran his thumb over one of his knuckles. The move had Remus startled, though he didn’t pull away.

The world around them seemed to have evaporated, as if he'd had the courtesy to leave them both alone. Such a dainty gesture, the mere stroke of a finger against one’s skin. How soft and intimate, how small of a touch and yet they could just as easily have been bound by a string made of steel, so intense did the bond seem, at that moment. Yes, an invisible string of tiny steel soldiers all working towards the goal of keeping them together.

“Moony,” he repeated. “Say something, please.”

“I don’t want to lose you either.”

“Then talk to me?”

“That’s precisely why I can’t talk to you. I-,” he huffed as he stepped back. "I just can't, so I'm begging you, Sirius, don't ask me to do it.

“Why?”

“Pads.”

“There’s nothing that you could say that- “

“There is. Or, at least, there could be.” Remus sighed, as he began to gather his belongings. “Please, Sirius just…”

“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I won’t push but…” A pause. “We’re okay?”

“Yes. We’re okay, pads.” He smiled; that full on Remus’ smirk that’d stretch out the left side of his mouth.

“Holy bean? My treat?”

“Sure.”

As they began their journey to their notorious coffee shop, Sirius couldn’t help but ask again. He grabbed Remus by the arm as he dropped:

“Promise we’ll talk about it eventually?”

“I can’t promise you that.” Then: “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Huh. I guess I didn’t.”

REMUS

I don't want to lose you, or us, Moony

The words kept ringing in his ears as he lay on his bed, tossing and turning incessantly. After they had made up, the rest of the afternoon went by quickly. They talked about nothing and everything whiles enjoying a coffee as well as some pastries (for Sirius) and got fully done with the group project.

Remus had missed him, of course, but there, watching the boy he loved struggle with a particularly crumbly muffin, made him realized just how much exactly.

Being around Sirius hurt. Having him smile and look at Remus like he was the most precious creature to have ever walked the earth, or brush past him with a lingering hand on his back, wink at him, tease and give him the most casually intimate nicknames and mean none of it. All of that hurt like hell.

But being apart? Putting this weird and pseudo polite distance between them? A billion times worse. He was sure of it now.

I don't want to lose you, or us, Moony

Could he be more cautious and sensible with his comments, his attitude towards Remus? Could he put in the effort to mitigate the damages?

He could. He would in a second, too. But that would involve some explanation as to why he had to in the first place, which would imply Remus admitting to his feelings for him. So, no.

I don't want to lose you, or us, Moony

Sirius cared. A lot. Not in the specific way that Remus would want him to, but he cared. They were best friends and that was a form of love, right? Forget love, it was its very own miracle, the sort that had believers begging on their knees for late at night. They had that. It was not Sirius' fault that Remus just so happened to be the greediest cunt alive. The boy couldn't be blamed. He didn-t owe him anything.

And so, after yet another turnaround and an extensive internal monologue, Remus' decision was made:

He'd have to suck it up, simple as that. This was his problem. He needed to move on from his infatuation with Sirius. Otherwise, it would blow up their entire relationship and Remus would never forgive himself.

He grabbed his phone. “Mary,” he said, turning around again, “I'm downloading Tinder. Tomorrow, you'll help me set up a profile and you'll do so without any question. Good night.” He sent the voice message straightaway, fearing that he might abort the mission otherwise.

“I'm not losing you, Pads.”

---

“I can’t believe this.” Mary exclaimed at a loss for words. “These are all awful, Remus.”

He sighed, letting his head fall into his elbows. He knew this wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but damn. Who knew something so stupid as setting up a Tinder account would be so painfully difficult.

“I hate taking pictures of myself.”

“Don’t worry, they clearly hate you right back.”

“Not helping?”

“What I’m trying to tell you, “She interrupted, “is that these don’t feel very you.”

They had both taken advantage of a free period to get together to work on Remus’ situation. The more he thought about it, the more stupid he felt about the whole ordeal. Alas, this was too late now because Mary would never let him forget it.

“Okay, what about this one?”

He looked up, frowning. Oh, he knew that picture: taken about a month ago, on a Saturday night at the arcade center. They had gone out to play bowling. He was wearing one of his favorites sweaters and having a not-so-bad hair day. He’s smiling, though it’s subtle. It was a decent picture of him.

“Sirius took that,” he muttered.

“Ah. That explains it.”

“Explains what?” A bit too swift to answer there, Remus. He gulped.

“Chill out, jeez.” She smiled. “You’re beaming. That’s how your face tends to look when you’re around Sirius, that’s all.” She shrugged, going back to tapping.

Oh.

“Annnd there you have it!” She handed him back the phone. “You’ve got yourself a profile.”

“I feel ridiculous.” He admitted whiles rolling his eyes. “Thank you, though.”

“There’s nothing ridiculous about wanting to find someone, alright?” She leaned in. “You’re a wonderful guy, Remus. This is great. The users are probably losing their shit as of now.”

There was a silence. For a second, Remus almost thought that he was off the hook. But-

“I know you said no questions but…”

“Well, you lasted about ten minutes.” He mocked, dryly.

“I don’t need any details just…” She shook her head. “Never mind. I just hope you’re alright. You’ve never shown any interest in that stuff before and…I don’t know.”

“That stuff?”

“Oh, dating, kissing…crying in bed because of it.”

“Classic.” They snorted.

“Anyway,” she brushed it off. “Just know that I am here? If you want to talk?”

He nodded. He could have left it at that but after some pondering, he eventually let out:

“Let’s just say that I need to move on with my life.”

“Well, amen to that.” Ping. “Oh! That’s the sound of your first match!” She grabbed his phone before he could even see it for himself. “Let’s look at your soulmate.” She giggled. Then, she made a face.

“So?” Remus asked, amused. She slid the phone towards him and let him meet Jordan, 43, looking for a third.

“How bout we set an age gap?”

“Yup.” He blushed. “Brilliant. Let's do that."

BARTY

“You seem very tired.”

Barty sighed. “You’ve said that three times already, Dora.”

The blonde frowned as she poke his shoulder, gently. “I wouldn’t keep asking if you’d just give me a straight answer.”

“I did. Twice.”

“Not sleeping well is hardly an answer.”

“Are you saying that the act of sleeping and the one of being rested bear no correlation? Don’t let the mattress industry hear you.” He wryly remarked, though Pandora merely gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m fine. I told you, I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep.”

“If you say so.” She took out her notebook and shrugged. “The day men will learn to talk about their issues the world will turn into a sacred and peaceful garden of Eden.”

“Which would entail people running around naked.” He shook his head. “No, thanks. Bury me with my issues.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing some people naked.” She beamed, all starry-eyed. “Xeno has the most peculiar beauty marks, for instance.”

Barty contorted his face in horror. “Jesus, Dora?”

“A matter of taste. Feel free to fantasize about whoever you want.”

He was now fully flustered. This sort of subject would horrify him anyway, but the state in which he woke up this morning made it even more unbearable. “Can we drop this, please?”

“Oh.” There was a short pause before the blonde girl let out a soft giggle. Barty knew better than to look at her. He knew that sound. This meant “I’ve just came to the most amusing conclusion” and, surely enough:

“You’re thinking about someone, aren’t you?”

“I’m not talking to you.” He might as well have been menopausal given how warm he felt all over.

“He’s thinking about someone.” She repeated, though to only herself. She often did that, as if she was double-checking with a third invisible speaker. Thankfully, she dropped the subject, though it had probably more to do with Mr. Tonks’ entrance than a particular devotion to Barty’s plea.

The rest of the class was a mental fog for Barty. He tried to concentrate, but no stimulus could quell his internal turbulence. He couldn't understand what was happening to him. For someone who sought - and most of the time succeeded - in having control over everything, this was a nightmare.

---

“…Which should really tell you everything there is to know about my mother, but well. There’s that.”

Barty blinked, startled. He was in the cafeteria, facing a barely touched plate of food and a grumpier than usual Regulus Black. How did he spawn from class to here, he didn’t know.

“Another great family dinner then, uh?” He replied, his face unreadable. Thankfully, he had been able to sort of listen and remember the conversation. At least enough not to raise any suspicion. 

“This one was particularly intense though,” Regulus bit his cheek. “Mother, she…hum, she asked about Sirius.”

Barty froze. “About Sirius? To whom?”

“Well, me.” Regulus let out a dry laugh. “I thought I had no relationship with my brother, but apparently I’m still the closest thing to an informer that the Black family has. Guess it's all about perspective.”

“What about your uncle?”

“Alphard hardly talks to us.” He took a small bite. “He’s every bit what Sirius thinks he is. My brother didn’t invent anything when it comes to rebelling against your own.” He paused. “Anyway, I couldn’t tell her much but it wasn’t the point anyway. She wasn’t asking for news, not really.”

“What was the point then?”

“To bring him in the conversation.” He sighed as Barty waited for him to continue. “In January, my grandfather will be awarded the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in France. It’s a prestigious award given to those that have and I quote “significantly contributed to the enrichment of the French cultural inheritance”. In more realistic terms, he gave a lot of money to a lot of cultural institutions. Anyway, there is a huge ceremony planned in Paris and he invited the entire Black dynasty.”

“Meaning?”

“He specifically asked for Sirius to come.” Regulus shook his head. “He’s not extremely fond of him, but this is an enormous deal. That’s why mother brought him up at dinner.” He paused. “She expects me to convince him.”

“There’s no getting off it, is it?”

“Not a chance.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drown myself. Then, after I’ll have missed my own suicide, figure out a plan.”

“Sounds like a busy week.” Barty humored him, which did earn him a slight smirk from his friend. “I’m going to get myself a coffee before the line is too long. Want one? We’ll be better at talking strategies and kidnapping with caffeine.”

“Please.”

He nodded before proceeding to get up from the table. As he crossed the cafeteria to get to the machine, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wonder around in search of Regulus’ brother. He unmistakably found him at his usual table, sat with Lupin, Pettigrew and Potter. He chose to ignore the way he lingered a bit too long on the group and its surroundings and he also chose to ignore why he did it.

He's not here.

As he approached the machine, he began to rummage around in his pockets to look for some coins.

“Here.” A voice much too dreadfully familiar interrupted him. Evan Rosier had appeared out of nowhere and was now handing him coins, a smile far too big to even fit on his face. Yet it did.

The uneasy sensations took hold of Barty again, similar to the ones he felt in class talking to Pandora. He cleared his throat and swiftly took the money. “Thank you.” He then focused his entire attention to the screen in front of him, pretending to read off the names of the beverages on display.

“That’s it? No protest, no dry sarcasm?” He felt the boy hovering him, now way closer.

Barty gulped, thankful that he had his back turned to him. “I know how to choose my battles, and I’m in dire need of caffeine right now.” He pressed on the buttons and stared as the plastic cup descended. The presence behind him left but only to come and show herself next to him. Barty couldn’t tell if the new placement was better or worse.

“Grumpy.” Evan mumbled, though his tone was still lighthearted. “Bad sleep?”

“No, in fact I slept excellently." Barty blurted ironically, which had the effect of making the young man laugh. "Ah, there's the sarcasm. I was beginning to worry." Evan smiled. “Well, in any case, coach asked us to spread the word around that he wants to meet us all tonight after class.”

“Did he say why?” Practice was only two days away. What could be so important? But Evan shook his head. “Nothing. Just to meet him.”

Huh.

Well, there goes my focus for the rest of the day.

What focus though?

Fair enough.

“I asked my parents and my sister about the etymology of dolphin yesterday.” Barty blinked. “They didn’t know, so I got to show off. Thanks for that.” Another smile. Evan showed no trace of hostility. This disturbed Barty, who was used to seeing his forehead wrinkled or at least his nose turned up. But no, he was calm. It suited him quite well actually.

Barty nodded as casually as possible. “I’m glad.” Was this it? Were they fully cordial now? I don’t want this, he thought. Although what it is that he wanted he wasn’t sure either.

“Are you okay?” Evan asked him. “You’re very red and…” He approached his hand which had Barty paralyzed again. Then, he lightly went to press his palm on Barty’s forehead. For a second, he let himself dwell into the touch. But it was short-lived.

He jerked back instantly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Evan startled, obviously confused by his sudden recoil. “Just checking if you have a fever, jeez.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have I guess.”

“No you shouldn’t have.”

“Are you sure your—”

“I gotta go. Thanks for the coins.” He practically ran out of there, both coffees – now lukewarm – in hand. Staying close to Evan Rosier made him want to explode. Maybe he was allergic to him. At least he was beginning to think that this was the sanest explanation. He’ll need to run tests.

REGULUS

You’d think there was some sort of law in place forbidding people from exercising the right to wonder in silence. Either that, or Regulus was specifically targeted. Barty had left for what? Two seconds? Yet already, his personal space was being invaded. The intrusive subject was standing like an actor waiting for his cue. Some would say he looked the part, with his messy hair and incommensurably blue eyes. Any filmmaker would bend over backwards to capture that angelic face whose features were located at the very turning point of adolescence. The man was trying to make his way, but everything about that face, body and demeanor still betrayed the boy.

“Potter.” Then, for good measure: “Are you auditioning for a silent film?”

James beamed, looking all too pleased with the teasing. “Might be. Can you pull some strings for me?” He leaned in with a ridiculous pout as he simultaneously battered his eyelashes. “Please?”

“I believe in meritocracy.” He retorted, dryly.

“And Santa Claus too?” Which, to Potter’s credit, took him aback. The boy in the glasses immediately bit his lip. “Sorry. Was that mean?”

Regulus arched his brow. “Quite the contrary. I think it’s the least disagreeable think you’ve ever said to me.”

At this, James smirked. “Bit of a degradation kink uh?”

Regulus blushed, absolutely mortified. “Alright. You’ve officially exhausted my patience. Try again tomorrow.”

“How’s the book?” The boy asked, deliberately ignoring his comment. “You never answered my text.”

I’ve stared at my screen a couple of times without knowing what to say.

“I hadn’t started it yet at the time.”

“You could have texted that back.”

“Futile.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Well, have you started the book since?”

“I—” Regulus cleared his throat. “Yes. Barely though.”

“So? What do you think?”

He rolled his eyes. “I will text you my opinion.”

“You won’t.” He was right. “Tell me, come on! A little snippet? If you like it or not, at least.”

“Jesus, you’re loud.” Pause. “And persistent.”

James winked at him, which had Regulus flustered again. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I like it.” He mumbled, quickly glancing away. “But I’d rather wait to give you actual feedback. Something more substantial than a hostage situation at the cafeteria.”

“You got it.” James gave him yet another smile. “Well, I’m glad you like it.” He cleared his throat. “I should get going. Have a nice rest of the day, Regulus.”

Somehow, his ridiculous name had never sounded better.

“Likewise.”

James nodded. Then, just as he was about to leave, he added:

“Oh, Regulus?” The latter perked up. “You know, I wouldn’t have to resort to hostage taking if you texted back.” He winked, again, and left for good this time.

Chapter Text

BARTY

You’d think there had been a serious incident, something of substance, for them to be called in like that by their coach. What could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until Wednesday? Someone better be dying. It had Barty riled up for the rest of the afternoon, though the distraction was somewhat welcome.

So, yeah. Key word: you would think. However, now that he was sitting on the bleachers, Lawson on one side and Lovegood on the other, he wasn’t so sure. The atmosphere—specifically between James Potter and Coach Meadowes—seemed far too light. They were chatting idly as they waited for every player to arrive.

“Anyone still missing?” Potter suddenly asked, eyeing the group to try and answer his own question.

“Rosier,” the words escaped Barty’s mouth abruptly. He didn’t even check. His mind simply figured out that he was way too at ease for Evan to be there also. A frightening case of Pavlovian conditioning, truly. He cleared his throat and added, fully bluffing, “And Pettigrew.”

“Oh yeah. Here they come!” Black interrupted, gesturing like a child toward the approaching duo. Rosier went to sit one row above Barty, and at last, the impromptu meeting started.

“Alright, lads,” Meadowes spoke up, clapping his hands. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He nodded approvingly. “Now, there isn’t any danger at bay. Just an unexpected opportunity that I’m willing to make the most of.”

“Why is he talking like a villain in a Bond movie?” Pettigrew muttered, which made him and Rosier snicker, though it earned them a slightly pointed look from Potter.

“This morning, I got a call from the people in charge of this season’s championship,” Meadowes continued. “As you might be aware, there’s a friendly game happening at Bernsley this Saturday.”

“Versus Rossington,” Potter added, though only for good measure. They were forced to keep up to date with everything regarding the other teams.

The coach nodded again. “Well, in a wonderful twist of fate, it turns out that Rossington has to cancel. Since everything had already been set up for a match, the association offered us the chance to take Rossington’s spot and, therefore, play against Bernsley this Saturday.” He paused, gauging the reactions. “Your captain,” he gave James a look, “and I have discussed it, and we’ve decided to take them up on the offer.”

“It’ll make for a good warm-up for the game against Bawtry in two weeks,” Potter explained. “Plus, we’ll get this Thursday off to rest in exchange.”

“Something I have yet to agree to,” the older man corrected, his brows furrowed. “Depends on how pleased I am with all of you after the game.”

“Nah, come on, Coach!” Black chirped in. “This is Bernsley.” He didn’t need to add anything. Everyone knew what that implied: they’d win. Bernsley had finished in the bottom three for the last four years, at least. Even Barty was familiar with that fact.

“Which brings me to my second point: we have, literally and metaphorically, nothing to lose.” Another pause. The man leaned in with an expression Barty had yet to see, like he was about to pull off the biggest heist of the century. “So…” A final, painfully annoying pause, then:

“I wanna try things.” The group began to whisper among themselves, shuffling in their seats. “I wanna play around with the formations, spice things up, see if we can uncover some new strategies.”

“Can’t believe I’ll finally get to play goalie!” Black joked, earning a few chuckles.

“Now, obviously not everyone will be affected,” Potter smiled. “But the ones who will…”

“Alright, I’ll end the suspense here,” the coach elbowed their captain. “I think we’ve tortured them enough. James, please?”

Potter stepped forward, beaming. “Right! For the last two seasons, the team has played in a 4-4-2 formation. No need to argue about its efficiency.” He paused. “But it is predictable. So, this Saturday, we’re trying a 3-4-3 system. Which essentially means…”

“Three strikers,” the coach completed, suddenly locking eyes with Barty. He blinked, utterly confused.

“Wait,” Lawson intervened, seemingly as lost. “We’ll all be playing at…”

“The same time, yes. Rosier, Crouch, and yourself, together on the pitch, the entire game.” The coach pointed at them successively. “You,” at Lawson, “will play center.” Another gesture. “And you two will take the sides. Crouch on the left, Rosier on the right. Now, as for the defenders…”

Barty couldn’t believe it. Forget about their half-and-half bullshit deal; he would get to play an entire game. Ninety minutes, entirely his. He wouldn’t have to sit on the bench, enduring the disdainful stare of his father, or watch as the opportunity to score got snatched from him.

Yes, this Saturday, Barty would actually get to play a game for real.

Once everything had been laid out, the coach dismissed them all—well, except for Barty and Evan. This served as a bitter reminder that, no matter what, Barty still had to share the spotlight with him; had to work with him.

That was a game in itself.

“I know the two of you have had your fair share of differences, and while I’m not asking you to become best buddies, I need you to work together.” Meadowes eyed them both. “This is a chance to combine your skills to bring the team to its highest potential. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Evan answered, while Barty merely nodded.

“Good.” He paused. “Now, obviously, I can’t force you, but I strongly suggest that the two of you train together for the rest of the week. Get Lawson on board, become familiar with each other’s moves. That formation is all about you three. You need to be in perfect osmosis, in total sync. I don’t care if it’s fake and you actually despise each other. On that goddamn pitch, I want to see two soul mates ready to anticipate each other’s every move. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” they both replied at the same time.

“Well, look at that,” the coach smirked. “There’s some chemistry already. Now get out of here.”

REMUS

Ridiculous.

Everything about him was, really.

He felt out of place. His body too lanky, his limbs too long. Like a recipe where everything had gone wrong, every quantity misread.

In primary school, there was this kid. Not necessarily a full on bully, but more of a class clown that could be real mean spirited. One day, he’d called him Remantis. At first, it wasn’t that big of a deal. By the end of the week, however, it caught on, and everyone started to call him that. By the second week, when his mum asked him how his day had been, he broke down crying. He told her about the nickname. God knows what she had done about it exactly but when he went back to school, the bully apologized. Hell, even gave Remus chocolates and everything. No one used the name ever again. That was the end of Remantis.

Now, in hindsight, Remus almost felt bad for him. The name was fairly clever, for a start. But most importantly, the comparison couldn’t have been more astute. When you look at pictures of him at that time, he even stood like a mantis: he actually used to fold his forearms to make them appear shorter.

So, yeah. Remantis.

These are the thoughts that were crossing his mind, as he tried to comb his hair in the mirror, as he tried to make himself look somewhat attractive.

All for this stupid date that he had agreed to go on. At first, he was merely browsing; swipping left and right, thirsting or making a face, etc. He never actually send any message to the guys that he matched with. Too nerve-wracking. Hell, he barely answered to the ones that texted first.

But alas. On a random Tuesday, whiles doom scrolling:

G: That’s the coolest sweater I’ve ever seen!!!

- Hi, btw 😊

To be clear, he didn’t not send anything back to that. But then, later on the same day:

G: We'll pass through the deserts and wastelands once more, I watch as they drop by the beach.

R:Why are you quoting Joy Division?

G: To get your attention  😉

- (There’s a poster in the background, 2^nd picture on your profile)

R: Why that song ?

G : ?

R: Not really a mainstream one…

G: Oh, you’re that kind of person…

R: ?

G: Pretentious  😉

He had audibly gasped.

G: I like it though.

- But also, I’m just a massive JD fan.

R: Closer is a very underrated album.

G: Ugh, could you be more hot Remus???

He had blushed. He felt his cheeks heat, as well as his stomach flutter. Was is anything like the whirlwind of emotions that he felt when he so much as remembered that Sirius existed? No.

But it was something.

It gave him hope. So, he gave the guy a chance.

Something he deeply, deeply regretted now.

***

The guy had offered to go for coffee at the Holy Bean. Which, obviously, Remus refused. He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of both the guy and his potential friends. Or even worse: what if Sirius happened to be there?

Instead, the guy suggested something more out of town. Because it was about a 20 minute bus ride, Remus had left ridiculously early. He didn’t want to be late, for a start. But also, it was less awkward to be the first to arrive. Anything to avoid the terrible walk of shame up to the table, with the guy’s staring all the way.

The place was nice. Nothing fancy, or alternative looking. Honestly, it could have been a stock photo. But he liked it that way. He always felt more inclined towards the places you could blend in.

He was tempted to go on his phone. But what if he missed his date? Although, at the same time, it seemed about a thousand times worse to just be staring at the door like a stalker.

Fuck. I need a fag.

He put on his jacket and, as he was about to get up-

“Changed your mind about me already? Damn.”

He looked up, blushing from head to toe and absolutely mortified.

“I-I no I was just about to- “

The guy laughed, shaking his head.

Oh. Dimples.

He held out his hand for him to shake and then:

“I’m just messing with you. Nice to meet you in person, Remus.”

Remus nodded, still red. Then, as they finally touched:

“Nice to meet you too, Grant.”

***

Grant Chapman was the earthly avatar of kindness, its very manifestation. If a children's book sought to illustrate it, it would have Grant's facial features; his teal eyes so round he seemed to always sport a look of surprise, his sunkissed skin with its freckles, his hair unable to decide if it wanted to be red or blonde. He had slightly protruding ears and a tooth gap which Remus couldn’t help but think that it complimented his face so well. His laugh was loud and generous. He seemed to think that everything was interesting, that everything was worth dwelling on. Remus had rarely seen anyone so available to the world. It was almost delirious to witness it.

The date lasted for about 4 hours. They talked music, sports (Grant was on his school’s football team and played goalie), food, movies and whether carrots gave off more right or left vibes (they didn’t come to an agreement). When Remus finally noticed how late it was, Grant offered to give him a ride back home. He drove a little red moped the speed of an obese snail, but he didn’t care.

“Don’t make fun of Molly! She’s an old lady. My father had it first.”

This was another important trait of Grant: he did not care. Or, he did, but only about things and people that mattered: his friends, his family, being polite. But as far a being perceived as cringe or ridiculous by people he didn’t know, they could fuck themselves.

He dropped Remus off a couple of houses down from his. He took his helmet off for him, ruffled his hair and said:

“Thank you for the date. I really, really enjoyed my time with you.”

“Yeah. Same. It was nice.” Remus smiled, then, “Would you…you know.”

Grant quirked his eyebrow. “Would I what?”

Remus rolled his eyes, cringing. “You know.” Then, as he noticed Grant’s expression: “Stop making fun of me.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m not. You’re just very cute.”

“Forget it.”

“No! Wait!” Grant laughed. “I’m sorry. The answer is yes.”

“Yes?” He felt his heart racing.

“Yes. I would love to go on another date with you, Remus.”

“Oh, awkward cause this is not what I meant at all…” Remus joked, scratching the back of his neck, a playful grin creeping onto his face.

Grant laughed. That generous, Grant Chapman laugh. “Well, I deserved that one.”

There was a brief pause, and then Grant’s voice softened. “Remus?”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss your cheek?”

Remus blinked, caught off guard. His breath hitched. "I—I... yeah," he stammered, barely able to form the word.

Grant leaned in, his lips brushing softly against Remus' skin, like the whisper of a summer breeze. The touch was so delicate, so fleeting, but it was enough to send a surge of electricity down Remus’ spine. He fought to keep his composure, though every part of him wanted to scream or burst into laughter or something. Anything.

If Grant noticed, he didn’t say a word this time. He simply smiled, his eyes lingering on Remus for a moment longer, warm and knowing. Then, with a quick movement, he slipped his helmet back on, ready to head off.

"See you soon, Remus," Grant said, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet but still carrying that unmistakable warmth.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Remus standing there, his heart pounding, his skin still tingling where Grant’s lips had touched.

REGULUS

It was between classes, and the hallway was packed with students moving in every direction. Lockers slamming, laughter echoing, and the faint chatter of conversations filling the space. Regulus was fidgeting with the straps of his leather handbag, observing from afar. He spotted him right away. Well, them, really. Sirius was currently leaning casually against the lockers, laughing at some joke that James had made. Although, there was a high likelihood that he was just laughing at nothing in particular, really. He had gotten used to seeing Sirius happy as long as James was around. That was just James Potter for you.

He didn’t want to do it. For some reason, having James there made it even worse. But he knew this was as good as it would be. Sirius would never, was never fully alone, and Regulus had to talk to him. The date for his father’s award ceremony was getting closer and closer and his mum expected him to convince Sirius to come. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, that she had made abundantly clear. If Regulus failed to accomplish his task, he would never hear the end of it.

But god, how he hated this, hated the fact that he had to go and beg his brother when he had nothing but bitterness towards him. Or indifference, in his better days.

Right. Here goes absolutely nothing, he thought as he finally made his approach.

He felt his entire body tightened as he stopped right in front of Sirius, without so much as a glance at James. He couldn’t deal with his intense stare right now.

“Hello, brother. We need to talk. Now,” Regulus said, his voice tight with exhaustion already.

Sirius looked up, still smiling, but the smirk slipped when he saw Regulus. Instead, his expression became one of pure confusion. James glanced between them, visibly alarmed.

“Regg-Regulus,” Sirius corrected himself right away, which made Regulus’ heart ache for a second. But he quickly recovered. After all, he was the one who banned the nickname. “What’s up?” His tone was neutral, but Regulus knew better. He could tell that his presence made his brother feel uneasy.

“Father is getting an award on the 5^th of November in Paris for his work as a philanthropist. Your presence is expected. Mother will phone you with the details in due time.”

Sirius froze, the casual slouch in his posture now fully disappearing. He exchanged a quick look with James, clearly not expecting the news. For a second, Regulus saw it: vulnerability, the desire to be accepted by his own family, the need for validation. But it was oh so short-lived.

“Ah, mother and her twisted sense of humor,” Sirius scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Surely, you’re joking.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “I am not.” This was terrible.

Sirius arched his brow. “You don’t actually expect me to care about da-father’s self-funded little reward?”

Regulus’ lips curled into a bitter smile, his frustration boiling over. “Believe me, no one is expecting you to care about anything. We’re past believing in miracles,” The sarcasm was in full swing now. Sirius had destroyed whatever diplomacy he had come with in the first place. “Just be there.”

“I can’t,” Sirius blinked. “I physically can’t. Regulus, if I have to be in the same room as them for more than…”

“I’ll be over before you know it,” Regulus cut him and god, how needy did he sound. This was humiliating. “Show up. Pretend. We-, you’ve done that so many times before. Why not once more?”

Sirius huffed. “That’s precisely why I left in the first place! All the pretending! Fuck! But sure, now let’s pretend like showing up at this award thing magically fixes everything.”

Regulus let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. It’s not about ‘fixing’ anything. Mother’s losing her mind over this, trying to make everything perfect and-“

“I don’t care about her!”

“Then fucking care about me, Sirius!” Regulus shouted. This left his older brother silent, mouth agape. “You know damn well who this will fall back on. You know how she gets. I will be the one stuck with her, not you.” He gulped. “Please. Do it for me, at least.”

They stared at each other, blankly. It felt like they both had a gun to each other’s head, and refused to surrender. Which seemed to be more tension than James could endure, for he shifted slightly, which reminded both Sirius and Regulus that he was actually still there. But he didn’t stop there, for a second later:

“Maybe you should just hear him out,” James spoke quietly, his voice gentle but firm.

Sirius shot him a look—one that was more surprised than angry—but the boy with the glasses didn’t back down. He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but he now turned his gaze on Regulus.

What was that? Did James Potter just take my side? Against Sirius?

After what seemed like an eternity, Sirius exhaled loudly, then, “Is Uncle Alphard also invited?”

“That I am not aware of,” Regulus shrugged. “But I will ask.”

“Right.” Sirius replied, smacking his lips.

“Right? As in?”

“As in I’ll think about it.”

Regulus nodded, understandably. He knew better than to push his luck.

“That’s all I’m asking.” He cleared his throat, as he recomposed his posture. “Thank you for your time,” Then, with a subtle nod, “Potter.” Before he finally turned to walk away, feeling the weight of the two pairs of eyes trailed on his back.

***

REGULUS & BARTY 

“Yeah. That sounds like something James Potter would do,” Barty snickered, as they were both walking down the hallway after their last class of the day. “Him and his savior complex. Always ready to chime in. Lancelot reincarnated.”

“I’m telling you, this is different.” Regulus sighed. “I know about Jam— Potter’s tendencies but against Sirius?” He shook his head. “I am pretty sure he would actually confess to murder if it meant saving my idiot brother’s ass.”

“I would do it for you,” Barty gave him a nudge. “Mainly to piss my father off, but still.”

“I’m touched.” Regulus rolled his eyes. “I guess I’ve been so used to Potter always being on Sirius’s side, like it’s some unspoken rule. I wasn’t even aware that other outcomes existed.”

Barty frowned. “So, riddle me this: does it bother you? That he spoke up for you?”

Regulus pinched his lips, unsure. It didn’t bother him, exactly, but it unsettled him. It was like something had shifted, just a little, but enough to make him question things; to make it all weird. “It felt good. Like I wasn’t the bad guy, for once.” He answered, eventually.

Barty nodded. “Right. Well, at least it made your brother reconsider. Your mother will get off your back for like what, a day or two?”

“Give or take, yes,” Regulus cleared his throat, now eager to drop it. “So, do you want to go to my place? Catch a movie?”

Barty hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze flicked away from Regulus, landing on a crack in the pavement as he ran a hand through his hair. “Can’t,” he said, voice tight. “I’ve got training in the morning. Gonna run some drills on my own before I meet up with Rosier and Larson later.”

Regulus’ brow furrowed slightly. “You’re training on your own? Then again with them? Isn’t Friday just a friendly game?”

“It is.” Barty clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He wasn’t frustrated with Regulus—he knew Regulus didn’t mean anything by it—but still, the words “just a friendly” stung. “But I told my father about the game. That I’m playing the full 90 minutes.” He glanced up briefly, meeting Regulus’ eyes before looking away again. “Now I have to prove I’m worth it. Plus, the coach insisted that we train together. We have to create chemistry, if you can believe that.”

Regulus was quiet for a moment, searching for something to say. The worst part was, he understood Barty —at least, in part. They both had families that demanded more than they could ever give, no matter how much they tried.

“Barty…” Regulus started, but then stopped, unsure. He sighed softly, his usual composure slipping for a second. “I get it. I do. It’s not… easy,” He winced slightly, realizing he’d just repeated the same words that didn’t land before. “I mean—it’s important, I get that. But don’t kill yourself over it.”

Barty shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. “Yeah, well. My father won’t see it that way. He’ll be watching the whole time, waiting for me to screw up.”

Regulus didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression softening in a way Barty rarely saw from him. “Look, I don’t know what to say to make that better. But I’ll be there. I’ll come watch you.”

Barty glanced up, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Regulus insisted, his tone firm, but not pushy. “Besides, I think it’ll be good for you to have someone there who’s not… you know. Him.” There was a slight bitterness in his voice at the mention of Barty’s father, but it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared.

For a moment, Barty didn’t respond. He just stared at the ground, the weight of everything pressing in on him, but somehow Regulus’ words chipped away at it, if only a little. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much that Regulus was coming, but it did. Maybe because Regulus didn’t expect anything from him—didn’t care if he played perfectly or if he messed up.

“Thanks,” Barty said quietly, almost reluctantly. He wasn’t used to gratitude, or at least not showing it.

Regulus gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “No problem.”

They stood there for a beat longer, the silence between them not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Finally, Barty shifted, nodding toward the exit. “I should go. Early start tomorrow.”

Regulus nodded, watching him go. “Don’t overdo it,” he called after him, his voice softer than usual.

Barty didn’t look back, but he waved over his shoulder, the smallest acknowledgment that he’d heard. As he walked away, he couldn’t shake the strange comfort that had settled in his chest.

At least someone would be watching for the right reasons.

As Regulus watched Barty walk away, a swirl of emotions tugged at him—an odd mix of sadness and comfort. Sadness for the boy he’d grown strangely accustomed to, despite their shared tendency to keep people at arm's length. But there was also a quiet sense of solace in it all.

Because, yes, things were still shit. Will be for a while, probably. But at least now, he had someone who understood. Someone who could relate. 

Someone that wasn't Sirius. 

MARY

Maybe it was the hormones coursing through her veins. Maybe it was the constant spectacle of Dorcas and Marlene's epic love story unfolding before her every day. Or perhaps it was Remus, who had recently gone on a date with the nicest guy in the universe—who also happened to be ridiculously hot. Whatever the reason, Mary couldn’t shake the feeling that she was going a little crazy. Because whatever the reason was, the fact was, she couldn’t stop thinking about Peter.

Peter who wasn’t her type, or at least she thought so. But did she even have a type? What did it mean anyway? Ugh, and that kiss at the party! How nice he had been! And later, after Barty sort of apologized, the way Peter comforted her…

Listen, was she prone to delusion? Sure. But the more she replayed that kiss, the more she felt like there had been something. How could she have missed it all those years? Had it always been there? Who knew.

But he was taken now, and he was her friend—just a friend. Friends were supposed to want the best for each other, right? And Sybille seemed like a nice girl. Peter deserved that, he deserved to be with a nice girl but—

But, but, but.

She felt torn. There was something about him—the way he laughed, the warmth in his eyes that made her feel safe yet exhilarated all at once. It was maddening. No matter how much she tried to reason with herself, she just couldn’t help it. The feelings wouldn’t go away, and every time she saw him, her heart raced, and her mind spun in dizzying circles.

But no, she wouldn’t ruin this for Peter.

…That was until everything changed.

Before she stood in the steamy, tiled girls' showers after P.E, on a random day.

Before her entire world shifted unexpectedly.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but there was no avoiding the conversation echoing off the walls, Sybille’s voice cutting through the mist.

“Peter and I? No, it didn’t work out,” Sybille had said, her tone light and unconcerned, like she was talking about the weather. “We both just felt more like friends, you know? No big deal.”

Mary had frozen, her hand halfway to her towel. Her heart had made an uncomfortable flip in her chest, and for a moment, she had just stood there, letting the steam swirl around her, barely aware of her surroundings.

They broke up?

She had glanced around, making sure no one noticed her sudden stillness. The other girls were too busy chatting or drying their hair, completely unaware that Mary’s entire world had tilted.

Maybe it hadn’t been nothing after all.

Her pulse quickened, and her thoughts rushed ahead. Peter isn’t with Sybille anymore. He’s single. And suddenly, the idea she had tried so hard to dismiss felt real. Tangible.

Alright, she thought, a sense of resolve building inside her. I’m going to tell him. After the game on Friday.

She could see it already—after the game, with everyone heading home, the crisp evening air around them. She’d find him, pull him aside, and just say it. Peter, I like you.

The thought sent a rush of adrenaline through her veins.

Grabbing her towel, she dried off in a daze, her mind already skipping ahead to Friday. Everything felt different now, like a door had opened just a crack, and all she had to do was step through it.

She bit her lip, trying to calm her racing thoughts as she got dressed. Whatever happened next, she was going to take her shot.

And for the first time, that felt like more than just a distant daydream.

BARTY

He had been up before dawn, running drills and perfecting his form, determined to make the most of the quiet hours before the team’s actual training session later that evening. His father’s words echoed in his mind, pushing him harder. Always be prepared, always be the best.

It was around 6pm now and Barty was waiting for Steve Larson and Rosier to join him for their scheduled session. Was he absolutely knackered? Yes. But he needed this, needed to be unstoppable on the field on Friday. He needed to secure himself as the best striker in the coach’s eyes. If that entailed exhaustion, then so be it. Although, honestly? He’d take getting up at five in the morning every day for the rest of his life over spending time with Evan. It was already hard enough to be around him before, but ever since his little… body incident…

Well, so much as breathing the same air as Rosier was torture. He’d had yet to figure out why that happened exactly. Or, rather, he had no intention to try and find out.

At least, they wouldn’t fully be alone today. They’d train for an hour and a half, say their goodbyes, and he’d get the fuck out of here. Simple enough.

He was in the middle of his stretches when his phone buzzed against the grass beside his duffel bag. Without breaking his rhythm, Barty glanced at the screen and immediately felt his jaw tighten. It was a message from Steve Larson. He tapped the notification, expecting something quick and casual—probably something about being a few minutes late. Instead, he saw the familiar text bubble filled with an all-too-familiar excuse.

Larson: Hey man, I’m not gonna make it today. Got swamped with something last-minute. Sorry bro.

"Swamped," Barty scoffed under his breath, the words ringing hollow. Larson was always full of convenient excuses, always finding ways to dodge serious training. This wasn’t the first time, and Barty knew it wouldn’t be the last. He stood up, rolling his shoulders and letting the irritation simmer inside him. They were supposed to get in sync, work on passing drills ahead of the big match, but now it was just him. Him and—

A movement caught his eye from across the field. Evan Rosier.

Of course.

It was just him and Evan.

God forbid that this fucker would have cancelled on him too.

Great. Fucking great.

Evan tossed his bag down casually and looked around the empty field, though this was merely a convention. “No Larson, eh?” It was clear he already knew the answer.

Barty shrugged, trying not to show his irritation as well as keep his voice even. “Nope. Swamped with something, apparently. Not like he ever takes this seriously.”

Evan nodded as he crouched down, tying his cleats, his movements slow and deliberate. “Guess it’s just you and me, then.”

The words hung in the air longer than they should have. Just you and me. Barty swallowed, trying to focus on anything else. He couldn’t put his finger on it—this weird energy that had been there for a while now, lurking in the corners of every exchange between him and Evan. And now, with no one else around, it felt like the air between them had gotten heavier, harder to ignore.

“We don’t have to,” Barty blurted out, betting on a possible sluggishness on Rosier’s part. “If you have somewhere else to be.”

Evan frowned. “Why would I have somewhere else to be? We’ve scheduled this. No, let’s do it without him.” He shrugged. It grated on Barty, that sense of ease Evan carried. It wasn’t fair, how he got to experience this so casually. Barty was fighting a myriad of battles inside his head as soon as Evan was in his vicinity, but he was calm. Relaxed, even.

“Yeah,” Barty muttered, bending down to pick up the ball. He wasn’t going to win this one. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He tossed the ball toward Evan, who caught it with ease, his eyes never leaving Barty. “In a rush?” His tone was playful, friendly even. He despised it.

“No.” Barty snapped, a little too quickly. He rolled his shoulders back, then jogged toward the middle of the field, trying to shake off the sudden heat creeping up his neck, as well as putting some distance between them. “Just—let’s work on those passes. Coach wants us in sync, right?”

“I believe the word he used was chemistry, yes.” Again with that tone. But now, he had added a stupid grin to it. A subtle, almost unreadable one, but Barty caught it. He wasn't even trying to provoke him; just acting normal and nice. Two emotions Barty couldn’t even fathom right now. Not when he was stuck alone with him with no one else around, not when he could feel the undercurrent between them shifting, like something was about to give way.

“Right. Come on then.” Barty finally replied, sighing.

They started slow, passing the ball back and forth, a rhythm gradually building between them. Barty tried to focus on the game, on the technique, on anything but what was going on inside him. Eventually, he allowed himself to dissociate, focusing solely on his movements.

But the tension was there, it lingered, coiling tight in his chest, a small bomb waiting to blow up. Every time Evan sent the ball his way, Barty could feel his gaze linger just a second too long. And when Barty passed it back, his own eyes would stray, catching the way Evan moved so fluidly, his body cutting through the morning air like it was made for this. It wasn’t something Barty liked to think about—how easy it was for Evan. How natural. How his body seemed made for this.

“Your turn to take the side,” Evan called out, moving toward him, closer than necessary, which resulted in Barty’s pulse kicking up a notch. He didn’t bother to give him an answer and jogged to his new position, trying to shake off this fretfulness that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the way Evan was watching him.

They switched drills, working on their offensive plays. Evan’s footwork was sharp, precise, his movements fluid as he sent the ball flying past Barty. Every time they crossed paths, it was like a brush of energy, brief but charged. It killed Barty to admit this, even if it was just to himself, but they worked well together. Playing with Evan, even if it consisted of simple exercises, was exhilarating. Like he was being bathed in a sea of caffeine. On the field, they seemed to understand each other in a way Barty would never dream of with someone else. Wouldn’t want, either.

At one point, during a sprint drill, Barty reached for the ball, only to collide with Evan as they both went for it at the same time. They stumbled a little, Barty’s shoulder knocking into Evan’s chest. For a moment, they were tangled up, too close—Evan’s breath hot on his neck, the weight of him grounding Barty in place.

“Careful,” Evan murmured, his voice gentle, barely above a whisper, although it echoed against Barty’s skin like a shout made of a thousand daggers.

He jerked away, his heart pounding in his ears. “You’re the one who wasn’t looking,” he muttered, though the words felt weak even as they left his mouth.

Evan didn’t argue, just stood there for a second, watching Barty with that same unreadable expression, which now looked closest to worry. Barty wished he would clap back, like before. He wished he wouldn’t just take it. Evan’s sudden passiveness and understanding towards him was unnavigable.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then stepped back, giving Barty space. “Right. Let’s run it again.”

They fell back into the drill, but the tension hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had only gotten worse. Barty’s movements were sharp, almost reckless, his focus shattered by the nagging awareness of Evan just a few feet away, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.

Eventually, Evan called for a short break. “I’m so thirsty. Mind if we take a second?”

They both jogged to retrieve their water bottles from their respective duffel bags. They remained silent for a while, the air only filled with the noises of them drinking. Barty took the opportunity to close his eyes as he exhaled deeply. When he opened them again, it was to find Evan staring at him. His lips glistened in the sunlight, the few remaining drops of water resembling tiny sequins.

Evan gave him a slight nod. “You okay?”

Barty shrugged, clearing his throat. “Tired. I got up at 5 this morning.”

Evan raised his eyebrows. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“To make time for a run before class.”

“Again, why?” He puffed out. “You went on a run, got through an entire day of school then came here to train once more?” Barty rolled his eyes, again without answering. Evan finally shook his head, smiling.

“You’re really something else, aren’t you Barty Crouch.”

For some reason, this made his cheeks heat up. “Yeah. Well. Someone’s gotta make sure we crush it on Friday. Not exactly like we can count on Larson, for a start.”

Evan chuckled. Then, his face lit up. “You know, Larson and I have known each other since we were kids, right?”

Barty raised an eyebrow, confused and seemingly unbothered. “Why would I know that?”

“Just a figure of speech. Well, anyways, him and I go way back.” He paused, now looking fully mischievous. “Point is, Larson was super gullible. So, one day, we were about fourteen I think, I told him that Dr. Pepper was named after an actual doctor. And that drinking it was super healthy. Like, it’d help you grow taller, make you stronger, the whole deal.

Barty blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Evan said, laughing. “I even told him to ask his parents—who, mind you, are dentists—and I guaranteed they’d back me up.”

Barty let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “And he believed you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Evan said, grinning. “Next thing I know, he’s drinking Dr. Pepper like it’s some miracle cure. Even brought one with him to school every day for weeks, swearing it was ‘for his health.’”

Barty snorted, unable to help himself. “That’s... wow.” Evan’s grin widened, clearly pleased to have broken through Barty’s usually stern demeanor.

“The best part?” Evan added, leaning in a bit. “His parents eventually found out and had to sit him down for this serious talk about sugar and cavities, which, by the way, was hilarious since they’re both dentists.”

Barty let out a full-on laugh. “That’s... that’s priceless.”

Evan smiled, a little softer now. “Yeah, he never really lived that one down.”

The usual tension, the competitiveness, it was all muted. Evan shot Barty a quick, sideways glance, and for the first time in a while, Barty didn’t feel the need to pull away from the easy rhythm they’d just slipped into; the usual sharp edge between them now replaced by unexpected camaraderie, a brief reprieve from everything else.

“Looks like it’s just you and me carrying this team on Friday then,” Evan joked, still that same although softened glint in his eyes.

"Guess so," Barty murmured, frowning a little as he discovered that he fully meant it. He recovered his composure after a while and dropped his water bottle back into his bag. “Right. Should we work on some shots now?”

Evan approved, his gaze still lingering on him with a disarming intensity. “Be my guest.”

***

The rest of the training was quite easy. They didn’t talk much, but the tension seemed to have been mitigated. They slipped into an easy rhythm, taking and giving each other useful advices on their respective game. There were no jabs, or the usual witty comments. Just two players on the same team eager to make it work.

Eventually, they both called an end to it, feeling more than exhausted from all the running around. But they were content.

“Same time tomorrow?” Evan asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his tone casual as ever. But there was something more to it. Hope, or some sort of small plea. He wanted to.

 “Yeah,” Barty muttered, his tone as even as he could keep it. “Same time.”

Evan gave a short nod, then turned and headed toward the gate. Barty watched him go and almost felt himself regret it, regret that this was already over. Because it made him feel good. Training here with Evan, working together…Yeah.

Whatever it was, Barty felt the urge to chase after Evan, to call him back. Except he really couldn’t.

Then, just as he was about to turn away, a gust of wind swept across the field, tousling Evan’s hair, causing him to glance back over his shoulder. Their eyes met for second, and it happened again: the peacefulness, the ease, the world fading away with its implications.

Barty felt a pull, something primal and undeniable. He took a step forward, the moment stretching, thick with possibility. But then Evan broke the gaze, and the spell shattered.

Chapter Text

REGULUS

Regulus was well-acquainted with battles; had gotten used to fighting them. However, more than anything, he had gotten used to winning them.

Except one.

A little quarrel one might refer to as the “I-don’t-give-a-fuck war”. Boy, was he losing this one.

Specifically, when the opponent happened to be James Potter.

James, who was so unapologetically himself, effortlessly charming his way into the world like a pseudo-Gatsby. James who simultaneously seemed super cocky and yet always acted concerned towards other people.

James who stole his brother away from him.

Yet, as of yesterday, James who took Regulus’ side in spite of said brother.

Maybe you should just hear him out, he had said to Sirius.

And he did. Well, kind of. He said he’d think about it. But given that this was Sirius Black we were talking about, that was nothing short of a miracle. His mother had been real pleased to hear about it too.

“Good. I will send a notice to your uncle. If that is the price to pay.”

And listen, even if Sirius ended up bailing, Regulus still had at least a couple of peaceful days ahead of him before he was solicited again.

All thanks to James Potter. But Regulus didn’t owe him anything, did he? He hadn’t asked James to defend him. If James had a weird savior complex, that was his journey.

No. He didn’t owe him anything.

Yet... it gnawed at him. He couldn’t seem to shake off the idea that he needed to thank James, that some invisible weight would sit on his chest until he did. It wasn’t about James at all, of course. Just etiquette. A simple ‘thank you,’ and then he could move on. Yes.

But there was also something else.

Solace comes at a price. His grandfather’s book that, for some reason, James had decided to lend to Regulus some while ago. At first, he had read it out of curiosity. He had expected the book to be vaguely entertaining at best, or forgettable at worst. He certainly didn’t expect it to stuck with him like that. But ever since he had finished it, he had found himself going back to it.

And much to Regulus’ irritation, he couldn’t help but think James had known it would resonate with him.

In any case, he wanted to know more about his grandfather; about how the book came to be.

Sure, he could have texted him all that. After all, James had given him his number. This seemed like the easier way to go about it, what an actual sane and normal person would do.

Well, unfortunately, Regulus was anything but that.

No, instead, he hatched an entire plan to bump into James “accidentally”.

A few attempts were made, all going terribly wrong. But the worst encounter happened at the school library. Regulus had spotted James going in and impulsively decided to follow him. At the time, it seemed like the perfect opportunity: less obvious than the cafeteria or out in front of everyone, where someone like Sirius might notice. Here, it could seem accidental. Or at least, that’s what Regulus intended.

He stood near the back, hidden among the towering bookshelves that separated the fiction section from the rest of the library. The soft murmur of pages turning filled the air, and sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting lazy golden lines across the polished wooden floor. The tranquility should have soothed him, but instead, his heart raced in his chest.

This was stupid, wasn’t it?

A few more minutes passed, and then—finally—he heard the familiar sound of footsteps. Regulus glanced up, his pulse quickening, eyes darting back to the book in his hand, though he barely registered the words on the page. He waited, trying to appear as if he wasn’t waiting at all.

James Potter rounded the corner, his untidy hair catching the sunlight in a way that made him look even more insufferably carefree. James always seem to carry with him that sense of easy confidence, scanning the room lazily as though life didn’t have much to challenge him with. A small, careless grin played on his lips as he strolled, looking for something or someone.

He didn’t notice Regulus right away, and Regulus found himself grateful for that extra second. It gave him a moment to calm the jittery feeling crawling up his spine.

Now or never.

Regulus timed it perfectly, stepping out from behind the towering shelves and into James’ aisle just as if it were by chance. He cleared his throat, voice smooth but just surprised enough to sell the act. "Potter," he greeted, keeping his tone neutral, though his heart was anything but.

James stopped in his tracks, blinking at him as though he'd just spotted something unexpected. But the easy grin didn’t falter, the corners of his mouth curling even more as he raised an eyebrow. "Regulus?"

Regulus forced a smirk, trying to ignore the fact that his palms were suddenly clammy. He then glanced at the stack of textbooks James was holding. "Pretending to study for show, is it?"

James let out a low laugh, the sound somehow too relaxed for Regulus’s liking. "Yeah, something like that. I keep showing up here, hoping the books will make me smarter just by proximity." He tilted his head, watching Regulus with a curious glint in his eye, as though trying to piece together why Regulus Black, of all people, was standing in front of him.

Regulus shifted uncomfortably under that gaze. This was the moment, wasn’t it? The opportunity he had planned, waiting for the perfect chance to bring up... something. A conversation that could lead to more. But now that it was here, all his careful thinking seemed to escape him, his usual confidence flickering like a weak flame.

James was still staring at him, expectant, as if waiting for a response. It was absolutely unbearable.

The silence stretched out a little too long.

Regulus’s grip on the book tightened, and before he could stop himself, a wave of panic surged. His mouth felt dry, and every word he’d rehearsed in his head suddenly seemed too complicated, too dangerous to say out loud. His chest tightened.

Abort. Abort. Abort. 

“I—” Regulus faltered, already stepping back, the words he’d meant to say freezing on his tongue. “Never mind. I just—thought I saw something.” The excuse came out colder than intended, sharper, and before James could even respond, Regulus turned on his heel and stalked off, the burn of frustration rising in his throat.

James’s confused, “What—? Regulus, wait—” was cut off by the noise of his footsteps quickly retreating across the library floor, the sound almost painfully loud in the otherwise quiet space.

He barely registered the questioning glances from a few students nearby as he pushed open the library doors, the cool air hitting him like a slap. Damn it.

***

The final attempt was made at their local park. It was a shot in the dark, solely based on the fact that he had ran into James there once. He’d seen him with that obnoxiously large dog—Maurice, if he remembered correctly—ambling through the park’s trails. Now, Regulus was no animal expert, but he guessed that this could constitute a regular outing for James and that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to run into him “accidentally”.

The park was quiet for a Friday afternoon, just the way Regulus liked it. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, scattering leaves across the path, and the low hum of distant conversation blended with the occasional noise of a child. Regulus wandered aimlessly, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, letting his eyes scan the scenery as if he hadn’t planned to be here all along.

Eventually, Regulus turned a corner, and there he was. James, in his usual state of rumpled charm, hair messily pushed back as he jogged a little to keep up with Maurice’s playful energy. The dog bound ahead, then paused, spotting Regulus as if he were a long-lost friend. Maurice trotted up to him, tail wagging, and Regulus couldn’t help but reach down to pat his head, if only to make the whole thing look more natural.

And then, there it was—the sound of an approaching figure.

“Well, well, well,” James called out, a lopsided grin already forming on his face. He slowed to a stop beside Maurice, adjusting his glasses as if to double-check that it was really Regulus standing there. “Fancy seeing you here. Twice in a row now. Starting to think you might be stalking me.”

Regulus gave a slow, unimpressed blink, though his mind raced for a suitably casual response. “I didn’t realize you had exclusive rights to the park, Potter.”

James chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “Oh, absolutely. Didn’t you hear? The park authorities handed it over to me last week. I even have a plaque somewhere.”

“Right,” Regulus replied dryly, rolling his eyes but internally cursing how easily James could make him feel flustered. He shifted his weight, realizing he had to move this along if he didn’t want to linger in awkward territory. “Actually,” he started, glancing to the side as if the topic had just occurred to him, “I wanted to…mention something. About the other day. With Sirius.”

James blinked, the teasing smile fading just a little as he tilted his head in curiosity. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t necessary.” Regulus paused, making sure his tone was as neutral as possible. “But…thanks, I suppose. For stepping in.”

He immediately felt James’ gaze sharpen, like he was trying to read deeper into those few words. Damn him for always paying too much attention. Regulus cleared his throat and added quickly, “Not that it was a big deal.”

James smiled again, softer this time. “No problem. He can be a bit much sometimes.” He shrugged. “I figured you’d rather not get into it with him in public.”

Regulus felt a knot form in his stomach at how easy James made it sound, like it had cost him nothing to stand up to Sirius. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, and then, in an effort to regain some control of the situation, he reached into his bag.

“And since you’re here,” Regulus said, his voice deliberately casual, “I finished the book. Figured I’d return it.” He pulled out the worn copy of Solace Comes at a Price, holding it out like it had all just worked out by chance.

James raised an eyebrow, his grin returning with full force. “Oh, how convenient,” he said, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “What are the odds that you’d just happen to have it on you?”

Regulus’s heart sped up, though he forced himself to maintain a bored expression. “You have a remarkable talent for overthinking things, Potter.”

“Mm-hm.” James took the book from him, fingers brushing Regulus’ just briefly—enough to send a warm jolt through Regulus’s skin. James leaned forward slightly, his curiosity evident. “Tell me more about it, then.”

Regulus froze for a split second, caught off guard by the genuine interest in James’ voice. But before he could say anything, the corner of James’ mouth lifted in that all-too-familiar smirk. “Unless you’d rather go back to pretending this is all a big coincidence?”

Regulus felt heat rise to his face but maintained his composure. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

“Sure you don’t,” James teased lightly, his eyes twinkling. But there was no mockery in them, only something… softer. Almost understanding.

Regulus hesitated, holding the book tighter. “It was… well-written. There’s a kind of poetic melancholy to it... I wasn’t expecting to like it as much as I did.”

A brief silence followed. James was looking at him with that same warmth he always had, the kind that made Regulus feel seen in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Glad to hear it,” James said, his voice softer now. “Listen. How about we go talk about it properly? There’s a café just down the street. We could grab a drink, maybe something to eat?”

Regulus blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Eat?”

“Yeah, you know—food, drink, that kind of thing. I promise I won’t make it awkward,” James added, his voice teasing, though his gaze was steady, inviting. “And if I fail, there is always Maurice. Reckon he likes you.”

The dog barked, as if on cue, and Regulus cursed internally at how effortlessly James could disarm him. “I—” Regulus faltered, glancing away for a moment. The tension still hung thick between them, but now it was laced with something else. Something Regulus wasn’t sure he knew how to handle. But before he could fully think it through, he found himself nodding, as if the decision had already been made without him.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, trying not to sound too interested. “But only if you stop acting like I’ve orchestrated some grand scheme.”

James grinned, already looking victorious. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they started walking, Maurice happily trotting beside them, Regulus couldn’t help but glance at James from the corner of his eye. It wasn’t how he’d imagined this going—but somehow, it felt right. As they fall into an easy rhythm, Regulus found himself damning James Potter and his easy charm.

Again.

He had the feeling it wouldn’t be the last either.

REMUS           

The night before the game, Remus was wiping down tables at the Holy Bean, the comforting hum of the espresso machine blending with the soft strains of Closer playing from the overhead speakers. The owner had let him choose the music, a rare perk of the closing shift, and Remus found himself retreating into the familiar, haunting melancholy of Joy Division. The café was quiet now, just the faint sound of traffic outside and the rhythmic swipe of his cloth over the polished wood.

But his mind wasn’t calm.

An hour ago, Sirius had popped into there for a quick chat. Mainly, to complain.

“Like I know it’s a big deal but bloody hell, it’s still a friendly game. Everyone needs to chill out.”

“Uh-uh.”

“You know Evan trained with Crouch two nights in a row? Two school nights?”

“Pretty intense.” Remus said, only half focusing.

Sirius pouted, playing with the buttons on the register. “Moonyyyyyy! You’re not listening.” He grinned then, teasingly. "Also, you’ve got to stop playing music that makes me want to jump off a cliff."

Remus startled, instinctively reaching to lower the volume. "It’s not that depressing," he replied defensively, though the irony of the statement wasn’t lost on him.

Sirius smirked. "Right, because nothing screams ‘good vibes only’ like Ian Curtis crooning about existential despair." He snorted, taking Remus phone. "What’s this one about? ‘Heartbreak’? ‘Death’? ‘Being tragically misunderstood’?"

Remus felt a pang in his chest, though he hid it behind a dry laugh. "Maybe all three," he said, snatching the phone back. "You wouldn’t get it."

"Try me," Sirius challenged, leaning back on his elbows. His nonchalant ease was maddening, a stark contrast to the knot tightening in Remus’ stomach.

"I don’t know," Remus said, turning away under the pretense of putting away dishes. "It’s just... honest. It doesn’t sugarcoat anything."

Sirius tilted his head, studying him in a way that made Remus feel both seen and unseen all at once. "Huh. I always figured you were more of a lyrics guy than a vibe guy."

Remus hesitated. "Maybe I’m both."

"You never fail to surprise me." He beamed. "Deep, Moony. Very deep." Sirius laughed, and for a fleeting moment, Remus allowed himself to imagine that this conversation could be something else—something more. But Sirius’ laughter, warm and carefree, snapped him back to reality.

It was always like this with Sirius. Moments that felt intimate to Remus were just another passing interaction to him. The realization struck like a sharp gust of wind, cold and inevitable: Sirius would never see him the way he wanted.

As Sirius left, the place felt emptier than before. Remus stared into the void, the haunting echoes of "Love Will Tear Us Apart" beginning to fill the silence. He felt something break inside him—not in a painful way, but in a way that finally allowed the pieces to shift.

Grant.

Even thinking his name made Remus feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had started, this quiet shift inside him. It wasn’t the same dizzying, all-consuming whirlwind he associated with Sirius. That was chaos—a storm he couldn’t control, couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to. Grant was something else entirely.

Grant was calm. Steady.

When he thought about their date, it wasn’t the grand moments that lingered. It was the little things. The way Grant’s smile lit up his whole face, like he truly meant it. The easy way he asked questions, genuinely interested in the answers. The way he’d ruffled Remus’ hair when he dropped him off—like it was the most natural thing in the world. And just as naturally, he texted him.

R: Hey. Do you want to come with me to my friend’s game?

The message felt heavier than it looked, like it carried the weight of years of indecision. Before he could overthink it, he hit send.

The reply came almost immediately:
I’d love to. Can’t wait to see you.

Remus smiled, a flicker of hope warming the edges of his doubt. It wasn’t a promise—not yet—but it was a step. And for now, that was enough.

With Sirius, it was easier to expect nothing. Sirius was a constant in his life—his best friend, his anchor—but never in the way Remus wanted. Sirius could break his heart a hundred times over without even realizing it, and somehow, Remus had grown used to the pain. He could live with it because he already knew what to expect.

But Grant?

Grant was new. Grant was possibility. And that scared him more than anything.

He thought about the way Grant had looked at him during their date, like Remus was someone worth paying attention to. Like he wasn’t just a collection of awkward angles and self-doubt.

His phone buzzed again, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. It was another message from Grant.

Hope you’re having a good night. Sleep well, okay?

Remus stared at the words for a long moment, his chest tightening. It was such a simple thing, yet it felt monumental. He thought about all the times he’d stayed awake, his mind racing with everything he couldn’t say to Sirius, and how different it was now.

With Grant, there were no unspoken words. No games. No pretending.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

Remus finally typed back, his fingers trembling slightly.
Thanks. You too. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

It was true, he realized. For the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to something.

He set the phone down and leaned back against the pillows, letting his eyes close as Joy Division continued to play softly in the background. The knot in his chest loosened just a little, replaced by a cautious flicker of hope.

Grant wasn’t Sirius.

And maybe that was okay.

Maybe that was better.

THE GAME!!!

MARY

The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the field as Mary settled into the bleachers, her hands brushing against the soft fabric of the banner she and Dorcas had spent hours painting. It was a simple design—a bold, blocky "GO TEAM!" in the school colors—but Mary couldn’t help feeling a little proud of it. She smoothed it out on her lap, watching as the players jogged onto the field for warm-ups.

Dorcas plopped down beside her, leaning into Marlene, who was already stealing sneaky kisses despite the crowd. "Honestly, Mary, if we lose, it’s because you cursed us with that atrocious font."

Mary gasped in mock offense, clutching her chest. "Excuse me! I’ll have you know this font is modern and impactful."

Marlene chuckled, slinging an arm around Dorcas’ shoulders. "She’s right, love. It screams, ‘Look at us, we’re trying our best.’ Perfect vibe for this team."

Before Mary could defend her artistic choices, a familiar lanky figure made his way toward their row. Remus, dressed in his usual too-big sweater, was carrying two drinks, followed closely by someone Mary didn’t recognize.

Oh. That must be him.

Grant Chapman was... not what she expected. For someone with such a big laugh and even bigger energy—based on Remus’ shy accounts—he moved with an easy confidence that wasn’t loud, but self-assured. His mop of golden-red hair glinted in the sunlight, and the dimples Mary had heard so much about made their debut the moment he smiled at her.

"Alright, scoot over," Remus muttered, awkwardly holding out one of the drinks to Grant while trying to sit down. "Sorry we’re late."

"You’re not late, you’re fashionable," Dorcas quipped, elbowing Mary. "And who’s this? You must be Grant."

Grant gave a small laugh and nodded, reaching to shake her hand. "That’s me. And you must be Dorcas and Marlene, based on the descriptions."

"Descriptions?" Marlene’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned forward. "Care to elaborate, Grant?"

Remus went a violent shade of red, glaring at Grant. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" Grant teased, his grin widening. "Tell them how you said Dorcas was ‘intimidating in the best way’ and that Marlene was 'ritaline in a bottle' ?"

Marlene burst out laughing, while Dorcas raised an eyebrow, looking incredibly pleased. "Oh, we’re keeping you," Dorcas declared, giving Grant an approving look.

Mary giggled, finally chiming in. "I’m Mary. The font critic. Don’t mind these two; they’re very... themselves."

"It’s nice to meet you, Mary," Grant said warmly, shaking her hand. "And for the record, the banner looks great."

"Thank you!" Mary said, shooting a smug look at Dorcas, who rolled her eyes but smiled.

As the group settled, the conversation flowed easily. Grant was a natural, keeping up with Dorcas and Marlene’s sharp banter while stealing glances at Remus, who was doing his best not to combust. Mary couldn’t help but feel happy for her friend. There was something about the way Grant looked at Remus—like the rest of the world had gone quiet—that made her believe this could really be something.

Just as the players took their positions on the field, Mary’s eyes caught Peter’s across the way. He was laughing at something Evan said. 

Mary’s chest tightened, her fingers curling around the edge of the banner. She watched as Peter turned, scanning the bleachers, and then... he saw her.

For a second, the noise of the crowd, the chatter of her friends, even the pounding of her own heart—all of it faded. Peter smiled, lifting a hand in a small, almost shy wave.

Mary smiled back, raising her hand in return, the fabric of the banner crinkling slightly under her grip. It was a quiet moment in the middle of all the chaos, but it felt like everything.

"Mary, you good?" Marlene’s voice broke the spell, and Mary blinked, turning back to her friends.

"Yeah," she said softly, her smile lingering as she glanced back at the field. "I’m good."

BARTY

The locker room hummed with the low buzz of pre-game tension. The sharp tang of liniment mingled with the faintly metallic scent of damp grass wafting in through the open doors. Barty sat on the edge of the bench, his foot bouncing restlessly as Coach Meadowes paced the room, giving what was meant to be an inspiring speech.

"And remember," the coach said, clapping his hands for emphasis, "this is your chance to test new dynamics, to own the pitch. No one’s expecting a perfect performance, but I do expect effort. Chemistry. Strategy." His gaze flickered meaningfully toward Barty and Evan, who stood on opposite sides of the room.

Barty clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Chemistry. Strategy. He could practically hear his father’s voice in those words, demanding perfection. Don’t embarrass the family, Barty. He gripped the bench tightly, the wood cool and grounding beneath his palms.

"James, anything to add?" Meadowes asked, stepping aside to let the captain speak.

James Potter stepped forward, the same maddeningly confident grin plastered on his face as always. "Just one thing: Let’s play smart. Don’t overthink it. Trust each other out there." He turned, his gaze lingering briefly on Barty and Evan. "We’ve got this."

Barty forced himself to stand as the team began to file out of the locker room, the sound of their cleats clattering against the concrete floor echoing like a drumbeat. As he stepped onto the field, the roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, sharp and deafening. He shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun, scanning the bleachers almost instinctively.

It didn’t take long to find him.

His father sat arms crossed and face unreadable, a dark suit making him stand out in the sea of casual people. Beside him was his stepmother, impeccable as ever, her smile polite but detached as she clapped in a way that didn’t quite seem to belong to the rhythm of the crowd.

Barty’s stomach twisted. He knew what that meant: his father’s silent judgment, his stepmother’s carefully curated image. He could already feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him, suffocating.

But then, just a few rows down, his gaze landed on Regulus and Pandora.

Pandora was waving a ridiculous banner that read “XENO <3”, the bright colors standing out against the dull gray bleachers. Regulus, ever composed, was seated beside her, arms crossed but clearly paying attention. His presence was quiet but deliberate, and it grounded Barty in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Barty’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. Regulus had shown up. He wasn’t sure why that mattered so much, but it did.

Pandora caught his eye and waved enthusiastically, her grin infectious. She nudged Regulus, who gave a small nod in Barty’s direction. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Barty felt something shift in his chest, a quiet reassurance settling over him. For a moment, the weight of his father’s stare didn’t feel quite so crushing.

"Eyes up, Crouch," came a voice from beside him, low and deliberate, cutting cleanly through the noise of the stadium.

Barty turned, startled, to find Evan standing closer than he’d expected. His gaze wasn’t on Barty—it was fixed on the pitch, sharp and assessing. The faint smirk on Evan’s face was maddeningly casual, like he wasn’t about to step onto the field with the weight of an entire team riding on him.

"You alright?" Evan asked, finally glancing at him, his tone more curious than concerned.

"I’m fine," Barty replied automatically, though his shoulders were rigid and his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Evan’s smirk deepened, his voice dropping just slightly. "You look like you’re about to overthink yourself into oblivion," He said, his tone lighter now.

Barty opened his mouth to snap back, but Evan cut him off with a shrug, his gaze flicking back to the pitch. "Relax. We’ve got this."

It should’ve sounded cocky, but it didn’t. There was something unshakably steady about the way Evan said it, like he wasn’t just confident in himself—he was confident in both of them.

Barty frowned, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something stopped him. Because as infuriating as Evan could be, he’d always shown up when it counted. Every drill, every practice, every game—they’d butted heads endlessly, but Evan had never let him down.

And in that moment, Barty realized something that hit him harder than he expected: he trusted Evan.

On the pitch, at least, Evan was the one person Barty knew he could count on.

"Yeah," Barty muttered, his voice quieter than he intended.

Evan grinned, giving him a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Then he leaned in just enough for his voice to reach Barty’s ears alone. "Good. Let’s give them something to talk about."

The words sent a jolt through Barty, sharper than the cold air brushing against his skin. Evan clapped him on the shoulder—firm and deliberate, like he was sealing a pact—and jogged toward his position.

Barty exhaled, a strange tightness in his chest easing as he followed. The roar of the crowd and the weight of his father’s gaze still lingered, but they felt smaller now, distant.

Because for the first time in longer than he could remember, Barty didn’t feel like he was stepping onto the field alone.

As the whistle blew and the game began, a single thought anchored him, quiet but steady.

I can trust him.

SIRIUS 

The whistle blew, and the first half of the game began with an almost calculated sense of caution. Both teams moved carefully at first, probing each other’s defenses like chess players planning their opening moves. The midfield battle was tense but controlled, neither side willing to overcommit in the early minutes.

Lawson, stationed at the center of the attacking trio, quickly became a stabilizing presence for their team. His calm, methodical play allowed Evan and Barty to dart along the wings, testing Bernsley’s defenders with sharp runs and quick passes. The trio moved with a rhythm that, while not yet seamless, showed promise.

The first breakthrough came twenty minutes in. Barty, cutting in from the left, outpaced his marker and whipped in a low cross to Lawson. The ball skidded past two defenders, perfectly timed. Lawson met it with a clean strike, sending it soaring into the back of the net.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the scoreboard lit up: 1-0.

Lawson jogged back to his position, a satisfied grin on his face. Barty followed, his jaw tight but his expression determined. For the next fifteen minutes, the tempo remained steady. Bernsley fought back, launching a series of attacks that tested their team’s defense. Sirius was quick to intercept a particularly dangerous through-ball, clearing it with a powerful kick that sent it back to midfield. While the reduced number of defenders made them vulnerable to quick counterattacks, Sirius’ sharp instincts and quick reactions helped mitigate the danger. His ability to read the game and make decisive tackles kept Bernsley from capitalizing on their speed in the first half.

The energy on the field was electric—shouts of players and the roar of the crowd blending into a chaotic symphony. He thrived in this atmosphere, the adrenaline coursing through him like fuel.

Yet, even in the middle of the game, his focus faltered.

As he lined up for a throw-in near the sideline, his gaze flicked to the bleachers. It wasn’t unusual for Sirius to scan the crowd—it gave him an odd sense of satisfaction to know people were watching, even if most of them were there for the team as a whole.

But this time, his eyes caught on something that made him pause.

Remus.

He was sitting with their usual group—Mary, Dorcas, Marlene—but someone else was with them. Someone Sirius didn’t recognize.

The guy was leaning close to Remus, saying something that made him laugh. Sirius noticed the way Remus’ shoulders relaxed, the way his lips curved into a genuine, easy smile. The guy—tall, freckled, with messy golden-red hair—looked completely at ease, like he belonged there.

Sirius blinked, his grip tightening slightly on the ball. Who the hell was that?

"Sirius!"

The shout jolted him back to reality, and Sirius whipped his head around to see James glaring at him from across the field.

"Focus, mate!" James barked, gesturing for him to throw the ball.

Sirius scowled, quickly tossing it back into play. He forced himself to sprint down the line, rejoining the flow of the game. But his thoughts kept drifting.

Who was that guy? He’d never seen him before, and Sirius made it a point to know everyone in their social orbit. Was he a friend from Remus’ classes? A distant cousin? Someone who wandered in by mistake?

Another shout snapped him out of his thoughts, and Sirius barely intercepted a pass, sending the ball cleanly back toward James.

He shook his head, trying to focus. It was just some random bloke, probably not worth his time. Yet, as Sirius chased down the ball and dodged an opposing player, he couldn’t stop the question from circling in his mind:

Why did it bother him so much?

EVAN

The second goal came just before halftime, and Evan knew the instant the ball left his foot that it was going in. The curve was perfect, arching just beyond the keeper’s reach before slamming into the top corner of the net.

He jogged back toward midfield, heart pounding and a smirk tugging at his lips. The roar of the crowd, the rush of adrenaline—it all felt good. Damn good.

Barty was the first to meet him, exchanging a quick, almost businesslike nod. Evan could see the flicker of satisfaction in his teammate’s eyes, but it was subdued, restrained. Barty had drawn defenders away for that goal, his positioning had made it possible, but Evan knew it wouldn’t be enough for him. Not for what Barty carried on his shoulders.

As they reset for the next play, Evan glanced toward the stands. He spotted the man he knew must be Barty’s father sitting stiffly in the bleachers, face unreadable. Evan didn’t know much about him, only what Barty’s clipped remarks and tense silences had suggested. But he understood enough.

The next few minutes played out quickly. The opposing team scrambled for a counterattack, but Lawson broke it up and launched a pinpoint pass straight to Barty. Evan pushed forward instinctively, creating space for him, watching as Barty took the ball and sprinted toward the goal.

This was it. This was Barty’s moment.

The crowd swelled with anticipation, the noise building as Barty planted his foot and struck the ball cleanly. It was a beautiful shot, low and fast, aimed perfectly to the left of the keeper.

But the keeper dove, stretching just enough to deflect it wide with his fingertips. The ball skidded out of bounds, and the cheers turned into groans.

Evan felt something sink in his chest. It wasn’t his missed chance, but it might as well have been. He could see it in the way Barty jogged back into position, head held high but frustration radiating off him in waves.

Barty had been instrumental in both goals so far, but Evan knew it wouldn’t matter to him. Because it wouldn’t matter to him.

Evan glanced back at the stands, catching the same cold, steely expression on Barty’s father’s face. The man didn’t clap or lean forward. He just watched, like he was waiting for something—or for someone—to prove their worth.

For some reason, this made Evan’s blood boil.

They finished out the half quietly, the team holding their shape and maintaining possession until the whistle blew. The crowd cheered as they jogged off the field, but Evan’s thoughts stayed fixed on Barty.

He shouldn’t care. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Barty had always been the one he clashed with, the one who pushed and needled and bristled at the slightest hint of criticism. When they first met, Evan had been sure they’d never work together.

And yet... somewhere along the way, things had changed.

Evan couldn’t pinpoint when it happened. Maybe it was during practice drills, when Barty’s sharpness pushed him to work harder. Or maybe it was watching Barty quietly bear the weight of expectations that no one else on the team seemed to shoulder.

Whatever it was, it left him with one undeniable thought as they stepped into the locker room:

Barty deserves this.

He deserved to feel what Evan had felt after that second goal. To hear the crowd cheer his name. To walk off the pitch knowing he’d silenced every voice that ever doubted him—including his own.

Evan didn’t know why it mattered to him so much, but it did.

In any case, he decided, then and there, that he would make it happen.

Whatever it took, Barty was going to score in the second half.

---

Evan’s feet moved on autopilot as he positioned himself on the field, his eyes scanning for Barty. The first half had been smooth sailing—intense and thrilling sure, but not overly stressful—but now Evan felt a weight settling on his shoulders. It was not just about winning anymore. He knew they’d win. Everybody knew it from the beginning. To the coach, this game was merely an occasion to test new things out, remember?

Now, to Evan, in this instant, it was about giving Barty his moment.

Ten minutes went by, ten minutes of hyperawareness. Of everything: the ball, the players, the crowd—the entire field and the way the game flowed around him. Everything seemed to slow down and sharpen at the same time. Each movement felt deliberate, measured. Evan could feel the pressure, but he didn’t let it break his focus.

Evan had played alongside him long enough to know how Barty moved. Every feint, every sidestep was calculated, instinctual. He knew exactly where Barty was, and how to make it count.

And finally, the opportunity came.

The ball fell to his feet with the grace of something that had been preordained. A defender lunged toward him, but Evan side-stepped just in time. His eyes immediately found Barty in the perfect spot—just outside the penalty box, slightly ahead of the defenders. The lane was clear. It was his moment.

Without thinking, Evan shifted his weight, making the pass. It was quick, sharp, and deliberate—everything about it had to be precise. The ball shot across the field toward Barty, moving faster than any of the defenders could react.

In that split second, everything around Evan went silent. The world narrowed down to Barty and the goal. Time slowed as he watched Barty move, his body already coiling to strike.

Barty didn’t hesitate. He took the ball in stride, his eyes locked on the goal as the defenders scrambled to catch up. There was no hesitation in his movements—just raw focus. Evan’s heart beat in his chest, every second stretching, waiting for the release.

Barty planted his foot.

The ball left his boot with a clean, powerful strike. Evan’s breath caught in his throat. It was low, fast, and perfectly aimed to the left of the keeper, out of reach. There was no time for the goalkeeper to dive—he barely moved before the ball was already past him.

The net rippled.

The stadium erupted in deafening cheers, but Evan didn’t hear them. His focus was entirely on Barty, watching him for that second, that fraction of a moment when it would all click for him. Barty stood frozen, staring at the goal as the realization of what he’d just done hit him.

His shot was perfect. He was perfect.

And suddenly, Evan was running.

BARTY

The roar of the crowd swelled around him, but it felt distant—muted somehow, as if Barty were underwater. He stood frozen for a split second, staring at the ball nestled in the back of the net, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.

He’d done it.

The shot had been just right. Clean. Precise. Impossible to stop.

His hands were trembling, he realized, the adrenaline coursing through him in waves so strong it almost made him feel lightheaded. The noise of the crowd seemed to pulse in and out of focus, like his body couldn’t quite decide whether to let the world in or shut it out entirely.

It was just a goal, he told himself, the thought looping in his mind. It was just a friendly game. It didn’t matter. But his body betrayed him—his chest was tight, his stomach twisting with an overwhelming mix of emotions. Relief. Pride. Fear.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his father’s voice rang out, cold and cutting as always. You’ll have to work harder if you want to be worth anything.

He barely had time to register the thought before something slammed into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Barty staggered, catching himself just as strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a wild, crushing hug. His breath hitched, and for a moment, his body went stiff, his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. But then he caught the faint scent of Evan’s cologne—something sharp but warm, familiar in a way that made his chest ache—and everything in him softened.

“You fucking did it!” Evan’s voice rang in his ear, loud and breathless, tinged with an almost manic excitement.

Barty blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up. Evan’s grip was firm, almost too tight, like he was afraid Barty might slip away if he let go. Their chests were pressed together, and Barty could feel the rapid rise and fall of Evan’s breathing, could feel the heat radiating from his skin through their kits.

Everything about it was too much. Too intense.

It was just a hug—just Evan, congratulating him after a goal—but it felt magnified, blown out of proportion, like the world had tilted on its axis and narrowed to just the two of them.

Barty’s hands hovered awkwardly at his sides for a moment before he gave in, his arms coming up to clutch at Evan’s back. He wasn’t sure what he was holding onto—maybe the moment, maybe Evan himself—but he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

The faint tang of sweat mingled with Evan’s cologne, grounding and overwhelming all at once. Evan’s voice was still ringing in his ear, but the words didn’t register anymore. Barty’s mind was spiraling, caught between the adrenaline of the goal and the confusing tangle of emotions he couldn’t name.

“I—” Barty started, but his voice cracked, and he didn’t know what he’d even meant to say. His throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

Evan pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, his hands still gripping Barty’s shoulders. His face was flushed, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead, and his grin was wide and bright and utterly disarming.

“You were brilliant,” Evan said, his voice quieter now but no less fierce.

Barty stared at him, his chest tightening again. The way Evan was looking at him—it wasn’t just pride. It was something more, something that made Barty’s breath hitch and his stomach churn.

“Hell of a pass,” Barty eventually blurts out, breaking his silence. But his voice was softer than usual, like he was trying to ground himself, too.

Evan let out a laugh, the sound shaky as he pulled Barty closer again.

“Hell of a shot,” he replied simply, as he finally stepped back, ending the embrace.

The sudden distance felt like a relief and a loss all at once.

As they turned to jog back toward their teammates, Barty’s mind was still reeling. The roar of the crowd, the celebratory shouts of the others—it all felt like white noise compared to the weight of what had just happened.

4-0

MARY

The game was over now, and the stadium buzzing with excitement. Fans were starting to clear out, but Mary was still in the stands, just having made her way down from the bleachers. She watched the team celebrate from the edge of the field, her heart still racing from the game. There’s was rush in the air—everyone’s high from the win. 

But more than anything, her focus was on Peter, who was currently standing a little off to the side, talking with a few of his teammates. For the first time, Mary felt like she was ready to finally act on everything that had been building inside her.

Mary walked slowly toward the field, her feet carrying her closer to Peter, and for the first time, the adrenaline from the game seemed to fade into something more personal, more vulnerable. She hasn’t been able to forget his smile, the way he'd looked at her just hours before. And now, the moment had come, her mind all made up. 

She was not going to hold back anymore.

As she got closer, Peter's eyes brighten when he spotted her. He grinned, the same easy smile that had been making her heart flutter recently. 

"Hey, Mary," he said, his voice light, the excitement still fresh in his tone.

Mary smiled back, her heart pounding. This was it.  “Peter,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. But the words felt so small compared to the volume of her feelings right now.

Without really thinking, she stepped forward, and before she could second-guess herself, she pulled him into a hug. Her arms wrapped around him tight. She had done this before. But this time, it was not just a congratulatory hug. It was everything she had wanted to say, everything she had held back, packed into the simple act of holding him close.

They lingered there for a moment, his arms around her in return, and she felt a kind of warmth spread through her. 

When they pulled back, they locked eyes, and for that brief second, everything else disappeared. The noise from the stands, the team laughing in the background—all of it fading a she stared at Peter. Her heartbeat skipped, and before she could even process the wave of nervous pride rushing over her, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was a fleeting moment —her lips brushing against his, her heart racing so fast she almost could barely breathe.

Peter stumbled slightly, clearly caught off guard, but then, to her surprise, he laughed—that easy, infectious laugh that makes everything feel light again. He kissed her back, his hands finding her waist and pulling her closer.

When they finally pulled apart, Mary’s cheeks were flushed, her pulse still racing. She couldn't tell if she was about to implode from nerves or relief.

“Well,” Peter said, his voice teasing but soft, “that’s one way to say congratulations.” He grinned, his hands still resting on her shoulders.

Mary laughed, her nerves melting into something more comfortable. “Yeah, I guess I went a little… overboard.”

Just then, Marlene’s voice called out from behind them, loud enough for them both to hear: “Well, I’m definitely going for a simple congratulations myself!”

Sirius chimed in with a playful grin, “Yeah, didn’t know we were all doing this now."

Mary laughed again, feeling the tension slip away. The awkwardness of the moment now becoming a shared joke between them.

Peter shook his head, still laughing. “I’ll take it,” he says, his eyes soft as he looks at her. 

EVAN

The locker room was still buzzing with the aftershocks of the game, the sounds of laughter and water running in the background mingling with the distant murmur of voices. Evan sat on the bench near his locker, half-heartedly untying his cleats while his attention drifted elsewhere—anchored, as always, to Barty.

He had watched it all unfold earlier: the coach clapping Barty on the back, congratulating him with an earnestness Evan had rarely seen; the team piling on compliments and playful jabs, every word chipping away at the guarded edges of Barty’s usual stoicism. Even Barty’s father—his father, of all people—had managed a faintly approving clasp on his shoulder. Evan had seen the flash of surprise on Barty’s face, the way his posture had stiffened just slightly, as if his body couldn’t decide whether to lean into it or reject it outright.

And yet, through all of it, Barty had been light. Lighter than Evan had ever seen him. There was something softer in the way he smiled, the way he laughed when James had made some dumb joke about his perfect shot. It wasn’t loud or showy—it never was with Barty—but it was there, undeniable.

Evan’s heart fluttered, an unfamiliar ache blooming in his chest as he watched him. Barty’s hair was damp now, the dark strands curling slightly at the edges where they hadn’t dried, clinging to his forehead, his cheeks still flushed from the game. He had draped his jersey over his shoulder, his movements unhurried as he rifled through his locker for something. There was a glow to him, a rare kind of ease that made him seem…

Beautiful.

It wasn’t a new thought. Evan had always known it, always been aware of the sharpness of Barty’s cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the way his eyes could pierce through you with a single glance. But tonight, it wasn’t just that he was beautiful. It was that it felt like a truth so fundamental it should be carved into the universe itself.

And Evan couldn’t stop staring.

The guys were slowly trickling out now, heading off to wherever their night was taking them, but Evan didn’t register it. His mind was too busy spiraling, flipping through memories he hadn’t consciously summoned.

It wasn’t just how Barty looked tonight—it was what he represented. The culmination of every moment that had ever passed between them. Evan’s mind spiraled, unbidden, back to the first time they’d clashed, when Barty had shoved him against a locker after a bad practice. He’d been so furious, so full of fire, and Evan had been sure, in that split second, that they were going to come to blows. But then Barty had stepped back, his chest still heaving, muttering something sharp and dismissive before walking away. It wasn’t the anger that stuck with Evan—it was the way Barty’s hands had lingered on his jersey, like he’d been gripping it just as much to steady himself as to make a point.

And then there was that party. Barty, drunk and swaying, his usual sharp edges dulled by alcohol. Evan had caught him threatening to hurt someone, most likely himself. Barty had fought him the whole way, his words slurred and indignant, but when Evan finally got him to sit in the tub, Barty had stilled. He’d looked at Evan with something close to vulnerability in his eyes. Like he was sorry.

Evan hadn’t been able to forget that look.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Barty’s voice broke through Evan’s haze, pulling his focus back to the present. He was still standing by his locker, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced over at Evan. “How proud I am of a game that doesn’t even matter.” He shook his head, running a towel through his hair. “It’s just a friendly, but… I don’t know. It feels good.” Barty’s smirk softened into something quieter, his gaze dropping for a moment before flicking back up to meet Evan’s. “We’re not such a bad team, Rosier, huh?”

Evan didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, spiraling through every memory, every glance, every moment of tension that had ever passed between them. The sharp words they’d exchanged. The near misses. The way their eyes always seemed to meet first when something went wrong—or when something went perfectly right.

And now this.

Evan’s gaze lingered on Barty, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his shirt clung damply to his collarbones. His thoughts were a mess, colliding and overlapping in a way that left him breathless.

I want to kiss him.

The thought hit him like a freight train, sudden and undeniable.

I want to kiss him. Touch him. Be close to him.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t something that had just appeared in the wake of the game or the goal or the way Barty looked now. It was something that had always been there, buried under layers of tension and denial and unspoken words. But tonight, it felt like all of it was unraveling.

Evan swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. God, it was so clear now. Why had it taken him so long to see it?

He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. This was ridiculous. The last thing he needed was to lose control now. But the truth was—he couldn't stop thinking about Barty.

“Yeah, not bad,” he muttered under his breath, trying to brush it off, trying to recenter himself with a casual remark.

But the weight of the realization was already there, lingering heavy in his chest.

Fuck.

Evan closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath, as if he could breathe away the discomfort of the truth now sitting in his gut.

Barty must have heard something, though, because he tilted his head, his expression shifting slightly. “Are you okay?”

The words shouldn’t have landed the way they did—simple, unremarkable—but they hit Evan square in the chest.

Was he okay?

He should’ve been terrified. The realization clawing at him should’ve felt strange, alarming, wrong. But it didn’t.

Because it just made sense.

Evan met Barty’s gaze, his heart still pounding, and forced a small smile. “Yeah. All good.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with unspoken things, but Barty just shrugged, his lips twitching into a faint, easy smile. “If you say so.”

He turned to grab his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with his usual unhurried ease. Then, as he reached the door, he glanced back, his eyes flicking to Evan one last time.

“See you around, Rosier.”

The words were simple, casual, but the way he said them—soft, with a hint of warmth—lingered.

Evan stayed rooted to the bench, watching as Barty disappeared out the door. The locker room was quieter now, the sounds of voices fading into the background.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and let out a slow breath.

Yes.

I have a big, fat crush on Barty Crouch.

Chapter Text

PANDORA

The room was quiet except for the occasional scratch of pens on paper and the soft rustle of pages turning. Barty sat hunched over his textbook, his brow furrowed as he worked through another essay draft for Tonks’s class. Across the table, Regulus was reading, a notebook open beside him where he’d jotted down precise, almost decorative notes.

Pandora, however, was doing none of those things.

Instead, she was rifling through a small velvet pouch, her face lit up with excitement as she pulled out a deck of tarot cards. The edges were worn, the illustrations bold and colorful, the kind of thing that demanded attention even from people trying to ignore it.

“Pandora,” Barty said without looking up, his tone clipped. “Put those away.”

“Why?” she asked innocently, shuffling the cards with practiced ease.

“Because we’re here to study, not…” He gestured vaguely at the deck. “Whatever that is.”

“Tarot,” Pandora said brightly. “And who says it can’t be educational?”

Regulus turned a page in his notebook, speaking without lifting his gaze. “You’ll have to excuse him, Pandora. He’s a raging atheist. Anything remotely symbolic gives him hives.”

“I don’t have hives,” Barty snapped, glaring at Regulus before turning his attention back to Pandora. “And you’re not helping.”

Regulus shrugged, still not looking up. “Didn’t intend to.”

Pandora grinned, clearly unfazed. “Come on, it’ll only take a few minutes. And who knows? Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself.”

“I’m fine not knowing,” Barty muttered, but there was less conviction in his voice now, as if part of him was already resigning to the inevitable.

“Great!” Pandora said, taking his silence as agreement. “Let’s start.”

Barty sighed, leaning back in his chair. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Pandora shot back, grinning. “Now, focus. Think of a question or something you want clarity on.”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Clarity?”

“Yes,” she said patiently. “It doesn’t have to be specific. Just something you’re curious about.”

For a moment, Barty hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to Regulus, who was still jotting notes with an air of supreme disinterest. Finally, he relented. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Pandora shuffled the cards with a flourish, then laid three of them face down in a neat row. “Past, present, future,” she said, gesturing to each one.

Barty rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything as she flipped the first card.

“The Tower,” Pandora announced, her voice carrying a note of solemnity. The illustration showed a crumbling tower struck by lightning, figures falling from its heights.

Barty frowned. “That doesn’t look good.”

“It’s not,” Pandora admitted, her tone unusually serious. “The Tower represents upheaval. Destruction. A sudden change that shakes everything you thought you knew.”

Regulus’s pen stilled briefly before he resumed writing, his expression unchanged but his focus now seemingly split between his notes and the reading.

“That’s… vague,” Barty said after a moment, but his voice wasn’t as sharp as before.

Pandora smiled faintly, her fingers brushing over the second card as she flipped it. “The present: The Lovers.”

Regulus glanced up then, his dark eyes sharp but his expression neutral. “How poetic.” His voice was so deadpan that it almost didn’t register as sarcasm.

Barty stiffened, his expression carefully neutral, though a faint flush crept up his neck. “What the hell does that mean?”

“The Lovers isn’t just about romance,” Pandora said, her tone calm but pointed. “It’s about choices. Conflict. A crossroads where you have to decide what matters most to you—what you want, and what you’re willing to risk to get it.”

Barty said nothing, his jaw tightening as he stared at the card.

“And finally…” Pandora flipped the last card. “The Knight of Cups.”

Barty exhaled sharply, his fingers curling against the edge of the table.

“This one’s about following your heart,” Pandora said, her voice soft now. “It’s about vulnerability. Taking a risk, even if it scares you. It’s not an easy path, but it’s a meaningful one.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of her words settling over the table.

“Well,” Regulus said finally, breaking the tension in his usual monotone. “That sounds sufficiently exhausting.”

Barty shot him a glare, but Regulus barely blinked.

“Do you want a reading, Regulus?” Pandora asked, her tone light again.

Regulus arched an eyebrow, his face utterly impassive. “Absolutely not. It’s far too early in the day to spiral.”

Pandora laughed, gathering up the cards. “Suit yourself.”

Barty didn’t say anything as he stood abruptly, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He muttered something about needing to finish his work elsewhere, his steps quick and deliberate as he left the study hall without looking back.

Pandora watched him go, her expression unreadable, before turning back to Regulus. “You know, he doesn’t have to spiral either.”

Regulus finally put his pen down, glancing at her with a faint smirk. “No, but he will.”

Pandora watched Barty’s retreating figure, the library door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud. She glanced back at the tarot cards still spread out on the table, her fingers brushing over the worn edges. The Tower, The Lovers, The Knight of Cups.

Intriguing.

Her lips quirked into a small, thoughtful smile. She’d told him The Lovers didn’t have to mean romance—it could mean choices, a crossroads, conflict—but in truth, the combination of those cards, particularly alongside the Tower and the Knight, had a weight to it that even she couldn’t dismiss. And then there was his reaction: the stiffened shoulders, the way he’d flushed, the subtle tension rippling through him as though he were fighting something invisible.

Pandora prided herself on her ability to pick up on things. She wasn’t always right—no one was—but her intuition rarely failed her when it came to the emotional undercurrents people carried. She could feel them, even when they weren’t spoken aloud. Sometimes, especially then.

Her gaze drifted across the table to Regulus, who was now back to meticulously annotating his notes as if nothing had happened. She smiled faintly, remembering the first time she’d met him. His aura had struck her immediately: cold, sharp, and tightly wound, like a violin string tuned just a fraction too high. It wasn’t that Regulus didn’t care—he cared deeply, but he held everything so close to his chest that it was a wonder he didn’t suffocate under the weight of it.

Then there was Barty. When she’d met him, she’d been startled by how similar his energy was to Regulus’s, though it manifested differently. Where Regulus’s aloofness was icy and quiet, Barty burned with a restless, irritable heat, like he was constantly trying to outrun whatever chased him. They were both guarded, both deeply complex, both... aching.

Pandora sighed softly, her fingers drumming lightly against the table.

People like Regulus and Barty, she thought, were the kind of people who could spend their whole lives starving for love without ever admitting they needed it. When you were only given crumbs of it growing up—just enough to survive, but never enough to truly nourish you—you learned to tell yourself you didn’t need it. You learned to push it away, to treat it like a risk, a trap. But deep down, it never went away, that gnawing hunger. It only grew.

She’d hoped, briefly, that Mary might be good for Barty. That date he’d gone on with her had seemed like a step in the right direction—opening himself up, letting someone in. But it had been for all the wrong reasons. Barty didn’t want Mary; she had been a tool, a girl he used to prove something.

The poor thing.

Thankfully, now there was Peter. Pandora’s smile softened at the thought of them together. She’d seen them kiss after the game, their energy humming in perfect harmony. Whatever doubts Mary had wrestled with before, they seemed to dissolve in that moment. They were attuned to each other, naturally aligned. It was a good match—an easy one, in the best sense of the word.

Barty wasn’t looking for easy, though. Pandora wasn’t sure he even believed in it.

Her gaze drifted back to the cards. The Lovers, the Tower, the Knight of Cups. She tapped a finger against the table, her thoughts circling back to the way Barty had flushed, the way his discomfort had seemed rooted not just in the reading itself, but in something deeper. Something he hadn’t wanted to show.

Suddenly, a memory flickered in her mind: the game.

Pandora hadn’t been paying much attention to the details of the match—she wasn’t exactly a sports enthusiast, rather a “I want to support my boyfriend Xeno” girl—but she remembered the hug. That moment on the pitch when Barty had scored, and Evan Rosier had sprinted toward him, colliding with him in a way that felt almost reckless. She’d watched as Barty had embraced him back, not just out of politeness or camaraderie, but with a rare kind of openness that made her blink.

The crowd had cheered. Most people probably hadn’t thought twice about it. But Pandora had noticed.

From the outside, it had looked... intense.

She tilted her head, replaying the moment in her mind. The way Evan had held onto Barty, like he didn’t care who was watching. The way Barty had leaned into it, even if only for a second, like he’d forgotten to be guarded.

“Interesting,” she murmured under her breath.

“What’s interesting?” Regulus asked without looking up, his voice as flat and uninterested as ever.

“Nothing,” Pandora said quickly, a small, enigmatic smile curving her lips. “Just thinking about the cards.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further, returning to his notes.

Pandora leaned back in her chair, her smile lingering. The Lovers, the Tower, the Knight of Cups. And that hug.

She tapped her fingers against the table again, a faint hum of curiosity sparking in her chest.

EVAN

The classroom was already buzzing when Evan walked in, weaving through rows of desks to his usual spot near the back. It wasn’t the most riveting class—Geography —but it wasn’t bad either. The teacher, Ms. Bramble, was strict but fair, her monotone delivery softened by a dry sense of humor that caught you off guard.

Evan slouched into his chair, dropping his notebook on the desk as he scanned the room idly. Most people were still chatting or flipping through their phones, waiting for class to start. He was halfway through digging for a pen when someone slid into the seat next to him.

“Hi.”

He glanced up, startled to find Pandora Lambros settling into the seat beside him.

“Uh, hi,” he said, blinking.

She beamed at him, as if this were perfectly normal. “Hope you don’t mind me joining you today.”

Evan frowned slightly, his confusion obvious. “I didn’t think you even took this class.”

“I don’t,” Pandora said breezily, setting down her bag. “But I figured today was a good day to learn something new.”

Evan raised an eyebrow, his amusement starting to outweigh his confusion. “You just wandered into a random class?”

“Why not?” she replied, shrugging. “Life’s more fun when you follow your instincts.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, fair enough.”

Ms. Bramble walked in a moment later, silencing the chatter with a pointed glance as she set her bag on the desk. Evan tried to focus, but he couldn’t help glancing at Pandora out of the corner of his eye. She was scribbling something in her notebook—doodles, maybe—and her energy was as light and effervescent as ever.

About twenty minutes in, Ms. Bramble paused mid-lecture, checking the clock before sighing. “I forgot to make copies of the handouts. Sit tight—I’ll be back in five minutes.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and the room erupted into the usual low hum of conversation that followed a teacher’s departure. Evan was halfway through jotting down a few notes when Pandora turned to him, her expression bright and expectant.

“Want a tarot reading?”

Evan blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“A tarot reading,” she repeated, pulling a small velvet pouch out of her bag. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

He glanced around, noticing a few curious looks from nearby students. “Here? Now?”

“Why not?” Pandora said, grinning. “Think of it as a little break from politics.”

Evan hesitated, then shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, sure. Hit me with it.”

Pandora beamed, shuffling the cards with practiced ease before laying the deck on the desk between them. “Pick three,” she instructed.

Evan raised an eyebrow but played along, choosing three cards and handing them back to her.

“Okay,” Pandora said, flipping the first card. “The Sun.”

Evan blinked. “That’s... a good start, right?”

Pandora smiled, her tone light but thoughtful. “Yes, it’s a card of optimism, vitality, and clarity. The Sun represents growth, success, and bringing things into the light. It’s about confidence and radiance—what you have to offer to the world, unapologetically.”

Evan let out a breath, the tension he hadn’t realized was there easing just a little. “I could use some of that,” he muttered, more to himself than Pandora.

Pandora flipped the second card. “The Empress.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Okay, now we’re getting to the good stuff.”

“The Empress is nurturing and creative,” Pandora explained with a smile. “She’s about abundance and the potential for new beginnings. She represents care, compassion, and the energy of growth—planting seeds for something bigger. In this context, it’s about taking care of yourself, opening yourself up to the possibilities that are already surrounding you.”

Evan’s chest felt a little lighter, the tension shifting again. “That’s… actually kind of nice.”

Pandora chuckled, clearly pleased by his reaction. She flipped the final card. “And last, we have the Page of Cups.”

“Alright, what’s the catch with this one?” Evan asked, leaning forward.

“The Page of Cups is about emotional exploration,” Pandora said, her voice softening slightly. “It’s an invitation to open your heart, to trust your feelings and intuition. It’s a card that asks you to be open to what’s around you—not just with your mind, but with your heart. It’s about being brave enough to be vulnerable and let things unfold as they may.”

Evan stared at the card for a long moment, the quiet buzz of the room fading into the background. He couldn’t explain it, but the reading had hit him in a way he hadn’t expected. The words, the imagery, everything felt... right.

“I think it’s a pretty good reading,” Pandora said lightly, packing the cards back into her pouch with a satisfied look on her face. “Not a lot of negative energy here, just potential.”

Evan blinked, snapping out of his trance. “I’ll take it,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. “Maybe I should start believing in this stuff.”

Pandora shrugged, looking at him with a mixture of affection and amusement. “You don’t have to believe in it, but sometimes it’s helpful to see things from a different perspective.”

Before he could respond, Ms. Bramble returned, and the class settled back into its usual rhythm. Evan leaned back in his chair, his mind still on the cards. The Sun, The Empress, The Page of Cups.

It was about growth. Vulnerability. Taking chances, being open.

He couldn’t help the way his thoughts turned toward Barty, a familiar ache growing in his chest. 

PANDORA

She gathered the cards, slipping them back into the pouch, her fingers moving smoothly as she packed them away. Her eyes flickered to Evan for a moment, noting the way his gaze had shifted, the weight of her words settling into him.

Pandora could tell he wasn’t done thinking about it—wasn’t done figuring it out. And that made her wonder.

She stood up abruptly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “See you around, Evan,” she said lightly, giving him a casual wave.

Before he could respond, she was already out the door, her thoughts turning inward.

Barty’s energy had shifted, too. Pandora hadn’t missed the subtle cues—his growing awareness of something that had always been there between him and Evan. She had seen it in their interactions, in their proximity, in the way their bodies seemed to find each other even without words.

She wasn’t sure how it would unfold. She couldn’t see the endgame. But she could feel it, deep in her bones, like the first stirrings of a storm that would inevitably sweep through.

She hoped Barty didn’t shut himself off too soon. Because there was something between him and Evan—something meaningful.

Pandora didn’t always have the answers. But she knew when an important change was about to happen.

EVAN

Evan sat on the far end of the bleachers, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten as he stared across the field. It wasn’t intentional—he’d told himself he wouldn’t do this, that he wouldn’t get stuck watching Barty like some hopeless idiot. But there he was. Again.

Barty was sitting with Regulus Black at one of the picnic tables, the two of them looking like they’d stepped out of a moody black-and-white photograph. Barty was leaned back casually, gesturing as he spoke with a faint smirk. Regulus, on the other hand, sat perched on the bench, his book wide open but clearly ignored as he nodded back to whatever Barty had just said.

It wasn’t unusual for them to hang out—people tended to cluster with those who matched their energy, and those two shared the same sharp, hard-to-read demeanor. Most of the time, if Barty wasn’t alone, he was with Regulus.

Evan had never thought much about it before. Why would he? It was just… how things were. Barty and Regulus weren’t the type to run with the loudest crowd. They existed on the periphery, detached but still somehow magnetic, drawing attention without ever seeking it.

But now, everything felt different.

Now that Evan had finally acknowledged—admitted—to himself that he was attracted to Barty, he couldn’t stop noticing things he hadn’t cared about before. And noticing just made everything worse.

His mind seemed incapable of shutting off whenever Barty was around. It was maddening. Evan found himself constantly searching for him, scanning the crowd, his eyes instinctively flicking to the places where Barty might be, even if he wasn’t there. Every glance, every little moment felt charged with an intensity that made him dizzy. His thoughts drifted, and without warning, they were consumed by images of Barty—his sharp features, the curve of his lips when he smirked, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration during a race or in the middle of a conversation.

It was suffocating, and yet... exhilarating.

Evan had never realized how physically draining liking someone could be. The word crush made so much more sense now that he was living it. Because that’s exactly what it felt like: a weight on his chest, a constant flutter in his stomach, like he was walking around with his heart in his throat. It wasn’t just the emotional impact—it was the way his body reacted, too. His hands would shake sometimes when he saw Barty, his skin prickling with an electric buzz he couldn’t explain. He’d flush without even realizing it, a stupid, silly warmth spreading across his face. It was as if just thinking about Barty was enough to make his body betray him, his nerves scrambled in a way that left him more vulnerable than he’d ever been.

And yet, despite everything—the unease, the racing thoughts, the constant self-questioning—Evan found himself grinning like an idiot at the strangest moments. He’d catch himself staring at Barty from across the room and suddenly feel an overwhelming surge of happiness, even if nothing had happened, even if Barty wasn’t looking his way. It was the strange mix of agony and euphoria that had him caught between two worlds—feeling like he was losing control, but simultaneously, oddly content in the chaos.

It was cool to finally have a reason for everything. The way his heart had skipped when Barty had spoken to him that first time, the way he’d felt that rush of adrenaline when Barty had smiled at him—it was all explained. It was a crush. That’s why everything had felt so intense, so overwhelming. It was no longer a mystery. He had a name for it, and it almost made sense. Almost.

But the clarity didn’t come without its consequences. Because now, with the truth staring him in the face, Evan was hyperaware of every single detail. He couldn’t stop overthinking.  

It felt like a neurotic episode, an endless loop of thoughts he couldn’t escape. His body betrayed him, his mind ran in circles, and no matter how hard he tried to calm down, it all just got worse. Because now that he had figured it out, it was almost unbearable. The attraction, the pull, the constant ache.

And right now, the jealousy. 

Because Barty didn’t just hang out with anyone. He wasn’t the type to float between friend groups or charm his way into people’s good graces like James or Sirius. He was selective. If he spent time with you, it was because he saw something in you.

That thought alone made Evan’s stomach twist, especially as he watched the two of them now.

It wasn’t like they were doing anything unusual. Just, well, talking. But that was the problem—Evan could imagine this being more.

Regulus wasn’t just anyone either. He was smart—like, scary smart—and reserved in a way that made you want to know what he was thinking. He had that same intensity as Barty, that same sharp edge that made it hard to look away once they had your attention.

They matched, didn’t they? Not just in looks but in energy. In their ambition. They were both so academic, so driven. Maybe it wasn’t just a friendship. Maybe it was something else. Something… more.

It would make sense.

Evan’s jaw tightened as the thought wormed its way deeper, unwanted but persistent. His chest felt weirdly heavy, like there was a weight pressing down on him, and he hated it.

He tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. Unfair, even —it wasn’t like he had any claim over Barty.

But now that the idea had taken root, it was impossible to shake.

It wasn’t just that Barty and Regulus spent so much time together. It was the way they were together. Barty never looked that comfortable around anyone else, least of all with Evan.

Evan scowled, his thoughts spiraling further. Maybe Barty had already found someone who understood him, who could keep up with him in ways Evan couldn’t.His gaze lingered on the easy way Barty leaned closer to Regulus, the way they seemed so at ease in each other’s company, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“Do you think Barty’s dating Regulus?”

The sound of James choking on his crisps made Evan blink out of his daze.

“What?” James spluttered, turning to stare at Evan like he’d just announced aliens were landing on the pitch.

Evan immediately regretted opening his mouth. “Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

James wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes still wide. “Hang on—what did you just say?”

“Forget it, James.”

“No, no, no.” James pointed at him, still looking stunned. “You said—you think Barty’s dating Regulus?”

Evan scowled, turning back toward the picnic tables. “I didn’t say that. I said maybe. I was just wondering.”

James stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before his eyes darted back to where Barty and Regulus were sitting. “That’s insane,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Evan caught it immediately, his gaze narrowing. “Why is that insane?”

“Because it just is,” James blurted, throwing his hands up. “It’s Barty and Regulus. They’re both—” He hesitated, like he didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. “They’re both… them. It wouldn’t work.”

“Uh-huh.” Evan tilted his head, studying James carefully. “You seem awfully defensive about this.”

“I’m not defensive,” James shot back, way too defensively.

“You literally just choked on your food.”

“That was unrelated,” James grumbled, shoving another handful of crisps into his mouth as if to prove a point.

Evan narrowed his eyes further, sensing something else lurking under James’s hasty denial. He let the silence stretch between them for a beat longer before pushing, just to see what would happen.

“Wait…” Evan said slowly, dragging the word out. “Do you—”

“Nope,” James cut in immediately, his voice loud and clear. He waved a hand as if swatting the question out of the air. “Not going there. Not a chance.”

Evan raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not going where, exactly?”

“I’m not doing this,” James insisted,

Evan was still watching Barty and Regulus from afar, frowning as if squinting hard enough might make sense of it all. James, however, was very much not relaxed anymore. He was sitting upright, crumpling the crisp bag in his hands, shifting his weight like he couldn’t quite get comfortable.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Evan said, voice casual but eyes sharp.

“You didn’t,” James muttered, a little too quickly.

Evan tilted his head, smirking. “James, you almost threw yourself off the bench when I mentioned Regulus.”

“That’s— I wasn’t—” James sighed heavily, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. He glanced at Evan and then back at his crisps, as if debating whether to say anything. “Okay, fine,” he muttered under his breath, voice low like someone might be eavesdropping.

“Fine what?” Evan asked, brow furrowing.

James looked at him seriously, leaning in closer as though sharing state secrets. “I’ve… sort of been hanging out with Regulus.”

Evan blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

James flinched. “Keep your voice down!” He glanced around, even though the nearest person was at least twenty feet away.

“You’re hanging out with Regulus Black?” Evan repeated, quieter this time but no less incredulous.

“Yeah,” James admitted, dragging a hand down his face. “Sort of. Nothing’s happened or anything, but we’ve… been talking. Spending time together. It’s a thing, I guess. Maybe.”

Evan stared at him, stunned. “James, are you serious?”

James groaned, collapsing back against the bleachers. “Look, I know, alright? It’s insane. He’s Regulus, and I’m me, and Sirius is my best friend, so you can imagine how well this would go over.”

Evan was still processing. “Wait, does Sirius know?”

“God, no,” James said quickly, looking horrified. “If Sirius finds out, it’ll be a catastrophe. Like, world-ending levels of disaster. He’ll hex me into oblivion just for breathing in Regulus’s direction.”

Evan couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. “You’re telling me you’ve been sneaking around with Regulus Black behind Sirius’s back?”

“I’m not sneaking around!” James protested, his cheeks tinged pink. “We’re just… figuring it out. Or I’m figuring it out. Regulus is, you know—he’s…” James faltered, searching for the words. “He’s not what you think he is. He’s smart, and he’s sharp, sure, but he’s also—he’s interesting, alright? It’s complicated.”

Evan stared at him for a long moment, something slotting into place in his mind. James wasn’t joking. He was serious about this, and the weight of that realization made Evan’s earlier thoughts about Barty suddenly feel a little less ridiculous.

James caught Evan’s expression and groaned again. “What?”

“Nothing,” Evan said, though he was still fighting back a grin. “It’s just—here I was, thinking I was losing my mind, and now you’re telling me you’re out here bonding with Regulus Black. I feel so much better about my life choices.”

James’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean ‘losing your mind’? About what?”

Evan’s smirk faltered as he realized he’d walked straight into James’s trap. “Nothing. Forget it.”

James sat up straighter, looking far too pleased with himself. “Oh no. I told you my secret, so now you’ve got to tell me yours. That’s how this works.”

Evan groaned, glaring at James. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is now.”

“James—”

“Evan.” James mimicked his tone perfectly, leaning forward with a grin. “You’re not getting out of this. Who were you staring at just now? And don’t pretend it wasn’t someone, because I’ve never seen you look so invested in a conversation that you weren’t actually part of.”

Evan hesitated, feeling the weight of James’s expectant gaze. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid.

“Spill.”

Evan dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Fine. I was looking at Barty, okay?”

James blinked, his grin faltering slightly. “Barty Crouch?”

“Yes, Barty Crouch.” Evan shifted uncomfortably, avoiding James’s gaze. “And no, before you ask, it’s not— I don’t even know what it is. I’m just…” He trailed off, frowning. “I’ve been trying to figure him out for a while. That’s all.”

James tilted his head, his expression thoughtful now. “Trying to figure him out, huh?”

“Don’t,” Evan said quickly, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“I’m not,” James said, though the smirk was creeping back onto his face. “I’m just saying—it makes sense.”

Evan looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

James shrugged, leaning back again. “You and Barty. You’re like… two magnets that don’t know whether they’re supposed to stick together or repel each other.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

James grinned. “I’ve been told.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of lunch chatter and distant laughter filling the space.

“So,” James said finally, glancing at Evan out of the corner of his eye. “What are you going to do about it?”

Evan didn’t answer right away. He looked back toward where Barty was sitting with Regulus, still deep in conversation, and something tugged at his chest.

“I don’t know yet,” Evan admitted quietly.

James nodded, as if he understood perfectly. “Well, when you do,” he said, his tone light, “let me know. Maybe I’ll pick up a tip or two.”

Evan snorted, shoving James’s shoulder lightly. “Yeah, right. Like you need help.”

James grinned, but there was something softer in his expression now—something understanding. “Just don’t overthink it, Rosier. Sometimes, you’ve just got to take the shot.”

Evan didn’t respond, but James’s words stuck with him as he turned back to watch Barty, his mind racing with possibilities he wasn’t ready to admit yet.

Evan shifted uncomfortably as James leaned back against the bleachers, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.

“What do you mean, it makes sense?” Evan asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

James shrugged, his eyes sparkling with barely-contained amusement. “Oh, come on. I’m the team captain. I know how to spot chemistry when I see it.”

Evan blinked, staring at him. “Chemistry?”

“Yeah,” James said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You and Barty. You’ve always been a pairing, whether you like it or not.”

Evan scoffed, though his ears burned at the words. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” James tilted his head, grinning like a cat with a mouse. “You’re always there, Rosier. Pushing him. Challenging him. And don’t get me wrong, he gives as good as he gets—probably better—but that’s the point, isn’t it? You balance each other out.”

Evan rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the way his chest tightened. “You’re reading into things.”

“I don’t think I am,” James said, his tone light but his gaze sharp. “Think about it. You two have spent more time yelling at each other than most people spend actually talking, and somehow, it works. Every practice, every game—it’s like you know exactly where the other one is going to be. It’s like watching two magnets trying not to snap together.”

Evan felt heat creeping up his neck. “James—”

“I mean, look,” James continued, clearly enjoying himself now. “You’re both stubborn as hell. You can’t stand losing. You argue like it’s your full-time job. And yet—” He pointed dramatically at Evan. “You’re always paired up.”

Evan frowned, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “That’s just because of the positions we play.”

“Positions, my arse,” James shot back, grinning wider. “That’s just an excuse. Perhaps at the beginning but now? It’s more than football at this point. You choose him, Rosier, whether it’s intentional or not.”

Evan opened his mouth to argue but hesitated because… well, damn it. James wasn’t entirely wrong.

“You’re not exactly subtle about it either,” James added, his tone turning almost thoughtful now. “I mean, it’s written all over your face when you’re watching him. Like you’ve got some tragic, star-crossed rivalry going on.”

“Tragic rivalry?” Evan repeated, incredulous.

“Or whatever you want to call it.” James shrugged again. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s obvious.”

Evan stared at him, searching for some sign that James was just messing with him, that this was all some elaborate joke. But James’s grin had softened into something quieter now, his usual teasing edge tempered with an undercurrent of sincerity.

“You know, for someone who prides himself on being observant, you’re pretty blind when it comes to this,” James said, his voice calm now. “Barty’s the same way. He acts like you annoy the hell out of him, but he’s always keeping tabs on you. He watches you the same way you watch him.”

Evan’s breath caught slightly, but he forced a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re making things up, Potter.”

“Am I?” James shot back with a knowing smile. “I’m just saying—it makes sense. Chemistry doesn’t lie, Rosier.”

Evan stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. The worst part was that James’s words had settled deep in his chest. Because he was right. About all of it. About the tension, the push and pull, the way Evan’s attention always seemed to drift back to Barty no matter where he was or what he was doing.

And about the way Barty looked at him sometimes, sharp and unreadable, like there was something just beneath the surface that neither of them could name. 

Evan exhaled sharply, glaring at James as if this were all his fault. “You really need to stop paying so much attention to people.”

James grinned, unbothered. “Captain’s job, mate. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the team dynamics.”

“Yeah, well, maybe stop talking about mine,” Evan muttered, running a hand through his hair.

James chuckled, clearly satisfied with himself. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it—for now. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you two finally figure your shit out.”

“Not happening,” Evan shot back, too quickly.

James didn’t push this time, just studied Evan carefully, the teasing edge softening into something quieter. “You know,” he said, voice low, “you don’t have to figure it out all at once.”

Evan hesitated, staring down at the grass below the bleachers. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw tightening like he was holding something back. Finally, he let out a long breath.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Evan admitted quietly, surprising himself with how easily the words slipped out. He didn’t look at James, didn’t think he could. “Things with Barty have been… better lately. I don’t want to screw it up. If I mess this up, we’ll go right back to square one, and I can’t—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I can’t do that again.” He sighed. "But know that I've realized how I feel, I can't just ignore it. You know?"

James was silent for a beat, his usual smirk replaced with something softer—understanding. “I understand. But you won’t.” he said simply. "Mess up, I mean."

Evan finally looked at him, skeptical. “And how do you know that?”

James shrugged, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Because you care enough to be worried about it. That’s half the battle, mate.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” James admitted, leaning back again. “Believe me.”

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the sounds of lunch chatter and distant laughter filling the space. Then James turned to Evan again, his smirk returning—though it was gentler this time.

“Alright,” James said, breaking the quiet. “Here’s the deal. I won’t say anything about your crush on Barty, and you don’t say anything about… whatever’s going on with me and Regulus.”

Evan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s assuming there is something going on.”

“There isn’t,” James said quickly, pointing at him. “But there could be. And it would be catastrophic if Sirius found out.”

Evan snorted. “Deal.”

James stuck out his hand dramatically, and Evan rolled his eyes before shaking it.

“Mutually assured destruction,” James said with a grin.

“Something like that,” Evan muttered, but his voice was lighter now.

James leaned back, letting the moment settle. “You’ll figure it out, Rosier. Trust me.”

Evan didn’t answer, but as he looked back across the field—where Barty and Regulus were still deep in conversation—he felt something in his chest loosen just a little.

BARTY

Barty stepped out of class, shaking the raindrops off his jacket as he squinted into the downpour. The gray sky loomed overhead, the rain falling in sheets, the kind of heavy, relentless storm that made him curse his luck. He had forgotten his umbrella again.

With a sigh, he started walking, aiming to get to his car as quickly as possible, but his mind kept drifting. His thoughts kept circling back to the game, to Evan, to that damned game-winning assist. And there was something else, too—a kind of unsettled feeling he couldn’t shake.

Then he spotted him.

Evan was standing by his bike, already soaked through, fiddling with something on the handlebars. Barty hesitated, stopping in his tracks. His first instinct was to just keep walking, to not get involved. It wasn’t like Evan had asked for a ride, and Barty wasn’t the type to just… offer. But then again, it was pouring.

And Evan looked miserable.

Barty bit the inside of his lip, the hesitation growing. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a car with anyone right now. Especially not Evan. But there was something about the way Evan stood there, drenched, his hair dripping and his shoulders hunched against the storm, that tugged at something inside Barty.

After a beat, Barty sighed, walking over to him, trying to sound casual. “Hey.”

Evan turned, blinking in surprise at Barty standing in front of him. “Hey,” Evan said, clearly a bit surprised but trying to act like this was a normal interaction.

Barty took a deep breath, his usual dry tone slipping out as he said, “You need a ride? It’s really coming down out here.”

Evan blinked for a moment, his eyes narrowing in a mix of surprise and curiosity. “You... offering me a lift?”

Barty shrugged, trying to mask the flicker of something inside him. “Yeah, why not? It's not like you’re going anywhere in this.” He gestured to the torrential rain.

Evan grinned, still a bit disbelieving, but then climbed off his bike, nodding. “Well, since you’re offering, I guess I’ll take you up on that.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m doing you any favors,” Barty muttered under his breath as he led the way to his car.

Evan chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, sure, you’re just being nice,” he teased, as he climbed into the passenger seat, dripping water onto the floor mats.

Barty slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the car. He tried not to look at Evan too much, his mind racing. The rain kept pounding down, making the sound of the windshield wipers almost deafening as he pulled out of the parking lot.

After a few moments, Barty finally spoke, his voice casual, as if this was any normal drive. “So, where do you live?”

Evan looked over at him, a little taken aback by the question. “Oh, um, not far. Just outside of town,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Usually, I come with James, you know? He’s the taxi driver around here, makes himself feel important or whatever. But it’s just my luck I didn’t today.”

Barty nodded, his eyes flicking to Evan for a brief moment before returning to the road. He didn’t respond immediately. The quiet in the car felt heavier than it should. They had both just been through the intensity of the game, but now that they were alone in the car, it felt like everything was a little too still.

Evan, sensing the silence stretching on, cracked a joke. “Yeah, James likes to pretend he’s the one giving out rides like he’s some sort of chauffeur. It’s pretty funny to watch.”

Barty snorted despite himself, rolling his eyes. “Sounds like Potter, alright.”

The tension in the air lightened slightly, and Evan let out a relieved breath, settling back into the seat. “Yeah? Think so?”

Barty shrugged, his lips curling slightly. “I think James Potter would die if he spent more than a minute not helping somebody.”

Evan grinned, shifting in his seat a little. “Yet, you’re the one saving me from the rain.” His voice softened with a teasing lilt. “I guess you have your charming moments, too.”

Barty’s eyes flickered to him quickly before darting back to the road, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar way. He wasn’t used to Evan saying things like that, even if it was casual. He could feel his face heat up slightly as he muttered, “Well, I have my good days.”

Evan leaned back, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’re being modest. I think you’re more of a hero than you let on.”

Barty made a sound of frustration, but it was more nervous than anything else. “Yeah, sure. Whatever,” he replied, his voice half-mocking as he tried to brush it off, but it was clear he was a little flustered.

Evan chuckled, watching Barty’s discomfort with a small smile. “You are. I mean, I’d be soaked by now if not for you.” He paused, his tone lighter. “Guess I owe you one.”

Barty cleared his throat, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m not looking for a thank you or anything.” His voice was a little sharper, but the pink creeping up his neck betrayed the true feelings behind the words.

Evan could feel the warmth in the car grow as the conversation shifted, and despite Barty’s usual defenses, something softer was starting to peek through. Evan couldn’t help but enjoy the playfulness in the air, even if it made him feel just a little too aware of the space between them.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to find a way to repay you then,” Evan said, the words slipping out a little too naturally. He bit back a grin, sensing the sudden awkward tension in the car. “I’ll figure something out.”

Barty’s gaze flickered to him again, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Barty quickly looked away, but Evan caught the flash of something in his eyes—something almost… vulnerable. He didn’t know what it was, but it left Evan feeling oddly giddy.

“Right” Barty muttered, still trying to pretend he wasn’t affected. “Don’t worry about it.”

Evan smiled softly to himself, content to let the silence settle for a moment. There was something nice about this—something that felt right between them. Even if neither of them could admit it just yet. The space between them felt less uncomfortable now. The rain outside was deafening, but in the car, it felt oddly quiet—like it was just them.

“Can I put on the radio?” Evan asked after a beat, glancing over at Barty.

“Sure,” Barty muttered, his fingers moving to the dial. “Wait—”

They both reached for it at the same time, their fingers brushing lightly over the knob.

For a moment, neither of them pulled back, and the touch felt charged, like something unexpected had just passed between them. Barty’s chest tightened, the warmth of the brief contact radiating through him. He forced himself to look straight ahead, his heart thudding faster than usual.

“Sorry,” Evan said quickly, pulling his hand back, but not before Barty caught the faintest hint of a blush creeping onto Evan’s cheeks.

Barty cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “It’s fine.”

They both sat in the silence for a moment longer, the hum of the radio filling the space. Barty, still acutely aware of the strange tension in the car, tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, focusing instead on the sound of the rain, the music, and the familiar, casual presence of Evan beside him.

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle by the time Barty pulled up in front of Evan’s house. The warm glow of the porch light reflected off the slick driveway, and Barty shifted into park with a quiet sigh.

“Thanks for the ride,” Evan said, his voice easy, though there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

“Yeah, no problem,” Barty muttered, his gaze fixed ahead, as though avoiding eye contact would steady his racing thoughts.

Evan opened the car door, stepping out into the drizzle just as the front door of the house swung open. His mother appeared, a welcoming smile on her face.

“Evan? Is that you?” she called, stepping out onto the porch.

“Yeah, Mom,” Evan replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Got a ride home.”

Her gaze shifted to the car, spotting Barty in the driver’s seat. “Oh, and who’s this?”

Evan glanced back, his grin softening. “Barty. He’s on the team with me. Gave me a lift since it was raining.”

Her smile widened, and she took a step closer. “Barty, huh? Thank you for taking care of him. You should come in for a moment—you’ve already done us a favor, and it’s miserable out here.”

Barty froze, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he glanced up at her, clearly caught off guard. “Uh, that’s okay, ma’am. I’m fine,” he said, his voice a little stiff.

“Nonsense,” she insisted, waving him toward the house. “Just for a moment. You look like you’ve had a long day.”

Evan’s eyes flicked back to Barty, catching the tension in his posture. “Mom,” he said gently, “it’s fine. Really.” He turned to Barty, his voice dropping slightly. “You don’t have to.”

Barty hesitated, the rain drumming softly on the roof of the car. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words felt heavy, stuck somewhere in his throat.

“Yeah, I just—” He cut himself off, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting Evan’s.

Evan nodded, his expression understanding. “It’s a lot, yeah?”

Barty exhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel loosening just a fraction. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Evan’s mom lingered for a moment, clearly sensing something unspoken, but she didn’t push. “Alright, well, thank you again, Barty. You’re welcome anytime,” she said warmly before heading back inside.

The door clicked shut, leaving the two boys standing—or sitting—in the soft glow of the porch light.

Evan took a step closer to the car, leaning slightly on the open door. “Hey,” he said, his tone lighter now, “don’t worry about it. I get it.”

Barty glanced up at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Evan offered a small, reassuring smile. “See you at school, yeah?”

Barty nodded, his lips twitching into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Yeah. See you.”

Evan stepped back, closing the car door gently, and watched as Barty pulled out of the driveway.

SIRIUS

The intruder’s name, as it turned out, was Grant Chapman. Bloke from another school that Remus had recently met. Sirius hadn’t gotten any of these details from Remus, of course. No, his friend had been frustratingly tight-lipped about it, brushing off Sirius’ casual inquiries with vague responses or the occasional raised eyebrow.

So, Sirius had turned to the next-best source of information: Marlene McKinnon.

“He’s just a guy, Sirius,” she’d said, exasperation dripping from her tone. “Really. Apparently, they bonded over music. He’s nice.”

Music? Moony? With someone other than him?

“Nice?” Sirius had repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. “What kind of nice?”

Marlene had stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What do you mean, what kind? The normal kind. Why do you care?”

And that had been the problem, hadn’t it? He couldn’t explain why he cared. He couldn’t explain the weird feeling that had crept up his spine whenever he’d seen Grant talking to Remus at the game, leaning in just a little too close, laughing at some inside joke Sirius didn’t know. It didn’t make sense, and that was the part that drove him mad.

So, he’d decided the best way to make sense of it was to get the whole group together. A casual outing. Nothing suspicious. Just bowling, of all things.

“We haven’t done anything as a group in ages,” Sirius had declared the day before, his tone deliberately breezy as he lounged on the common room couch. “Bowling sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds ridiculous,” James had replied, not looking up from his homework.

“Which is exactly why we should do it,” Sirius had countered, sitting up straighter. “Think about it—beer, bad food, lots of laughs.”

“You make it sound like a bloody vacation ad,” James muttered, but his lips twitched upward.

Sirius had grinned, sensing victory. “You’re in.”

From there, it had been easy enough to get the others on board. Peter, Mary, Lily, Marlene, Evan and Dorcas—no one had much of a reason to say no. Then, of course, Sirius had made his move.

“You should invite that new friend of yours, Moony,” he’d said nonchalantly as they were packing up their books after class.

Remus had paused, his fingers lingering over the spine of his notebook. “Grant?”

“Yeah, him.” Sirius shrugged, trying to look as casual as possible. “Might as well. If he’s going to be around, we should get to know him, yeah?”

Remus had given him a long, unreadable look before nodding. “I’ll ask him.”

And that had been that.

Now, as Sirius walked to the bowling alley with the group, Grant trailing slightly behind with Remus, Sirius tried to convince himself that this was all perfectly normal. He wasn’t jealous. He was just... looking out for his mate. That’s all.

But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t help but glance back at Grant every so often, watching the way he talked with Remus, the easy smile on his face, the way he leaned in just a fraction closer than necessary.

***

Sirius lounged against the worn leather of the bowling alley seat, arms draped across the backrest as he watched the scene before him. The place was alive with the clatter of pins, the hum of pop music from the overhead speakers, and the occasional cheer or groan from surrounding lanes.

But Sirius wasn’t paying much attention to any of that. His eyes were fixed on Remus and Grant.

They were standing just a few feet away, leaning casually against the score console. Grant had his arms crossed, his head tilted slightly as he laughed at something Remus had said. Remus was smiling—not his polite, tight-lipped smile, but the rare kind that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.

Sirius’ stomach twisted, and he couldn’t help but notice every little thing. The way Grant leaned in just enough to close the space between them, the way Remus seemed relaxed, comfortable. It wasn’t like that, was it?

But then there was the way Grant’s hand briefly brushed against Remus’ arm, casual and fleeting but deliberate enough to make Sirius’ chest tighten.

God, what am I even doing?

It was absurd. Sirius knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the relentless knot of irritation coiling tighter in his chest.

When Grant excused himself to head to the bar, Sirius saw his chance. He pushed himself up from his seat, stretching lazily as he called out, “I’ll come with you!”

Grant paused, glancing back at him, his expression surprised but polite. “Uh, sure.”

Sirius caught up quickly, falling into step beside him with an air of practiced ease. “Figured I’d grab something too,” he said, voice casual. “Besides, it’s always a nightmare carrying drinks back alone. Never know who’s going to spill what.”

Grant chuckled lightly, nodding. “Fair enough.”

The line at the bar was short, and as they stood waiting, Sirius leaned an elbow against the counter, turning slightly toward Grant. “So,” he began, his tone smooth, “how’d you and Moony meet?”

Grant looked at him, momentarily confused before realization dawned. “Oh, uh—Remus? We met online. Started talking, hit it off, I guess.”

Sirius hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Online uh? How...conventional of you.”

Grant laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It was more interesting than it sounds, I promise.”

“Right. I mean, he’s been hanging out with you a lot lately, hasn’t he?” Sirius’ tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. “Unusual for him.”

Grant frowned slightly, clearly unsure of how to respond. “I guess? I mean, we just... get along. He’s great.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, his lips curving into a tight smile. “He is. One of a kind, really.”

There was a pause, the weight of Sirius’ words lingering in the air. Grant shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable but not wanting to cause a scene.

The bartender interrupted the tension, setting a tray of beers down in front of them. Grant quickly reached for it, eager for a reason to move. “Alright, let’s—”

“You sure you can manage that?” Sirius asked, his tone laced with faux concern. “Wouldn’t want you to trip or anything.”

Grant froze for a moment, his grip tightening on the tray. He glanced at Sirius, a flicker of confusion and annoyance crossing his face, but he didn’t say anything.

They walked back to the group, the tension still thick as Grant handed out the drinks. Sirius returned to his seat, watching with sharp eyes as Grant rejoined Remus.

When it was Grant’s turn to bowl, he lined up his shot, focusing on the pins. Sirius watched him for a moment before letting out a low snort.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough.

Grant straightened, turning back toward Sirius, his expression darkening. “You got something to say?”

Sirius raised his hands, feigning innocence. “What? Just enjoying the game.”

Grant let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course, you are.” His voice was laced with disbelief, and he glanced at Remus, who was still focused on his drink and busy talking with Lily, before turning his gaze back to Sirius. The smirk on his face had faded, replaced by something sharper.

“You know,” Grant continued, his tone shifting, “you’ve been on me since we got here. You’ve been acting like I’m some kind of threat or something.” He took a step closer, his voice quiet but pointed, lowering it just enough so only Sirius could hear. “If you’ve got a problem with me, just say it. Stop playing these games.”

Sirius’ heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he felt his composure crack. He knew what Grant was implying. It wasn’t just the casual remarks, the passive-aggressive jabs. It was everything—the way Sirius had been watching, the subtle little digs, the way he kept trying to find fault in Grant just to push him away.

But the idea of actually admitting it, saying it aloud, made his chest tighten. His grip on the armrest of his seat tightened, and he fought to keep his voice steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but his words came out too quickly, too defensively.

Grant’s brow furrowed, clearly unconvinced. He leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving Sirius. “Come on. Don’t try to pretend you’re not doing exactly what you’re doing. You’ve been watching me and Remus like you’re expecting me to do something. Like I’m some kind of competition.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but no words came out. His pulse was racing now, the knot in his chest tightening further. The room around him felt too loud, too full of eyes watching, waiting for him to respond. His mind was a blur of frustration and jealousy, all the things he hadn’t said to Remus, to Grant, to anyone.

Instead, he tried to deflect, to act casual. He straightened up, forcing a smile onto his lips, but it felt thin, almost forced. “I’m just enjoying the game. You’re getting pretty good at it, after all.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed, and he straightened up as well. The challenge in his posture was unmistakable. “You don’t have to act like it’s some big deal,” he said, voice lower now, almost cold. “If you’ve got an issue, just own it. You don’t need to try and drag me down with all this weird... tension.”

Sirius’ chest tightened as he caught the edge of Grant’s words—his frustration, the annoyance that had been simmering since they’d walked in together. It was clear Grant wasn’t backing down. He wasn’t going to play along with Sirius’ games.

For a split second, the weight of it all hit Sirius full force: he didn’t have a good reason for his behavior, not a real one. He was just angry—angry at Grant for getting too close, angry at himself for not being able to hide it better. And more than anything, angry at the way Remus seemed to trust him so easily.

But before he could respond, the group’s eyes were suddenly on them, the uncomfortable silence stretching between them, and Sirius couldn’t bring himself to speak.

"Is everything alright?" Remus eventually asked, his brows furrowed.

Grant nodded, staring at Sirius daringly. "All good. Sirius is just being a sore loser."

Sirius wanted to scream. Wanted to do something—anything—that would shake the world out of this suffocating, frustrating silence. Sore loser? That was what Grant thought this was? It wasn’t about winning or losing, not really. It was about Remus. About the way he was looking at Grant, the way he’d laughed at something Grant had said just moments before, the way his smile had reached his eyes—something Sirius hadn’t seen in far too long, something he didn’t know how to fight for.

He could feel the heat rising in his chest, but it wasn’t just anger. It was guilt. And frustration. A mixture of everything that made him feel like a goddamn mess.

Shit. What the hell is wrong with me?

He forced a smile, the tension in his shoulders palpable as he leaned back in his seat, trying to make it look like he was unfazed. “Yeah, sure. I’m just a bit tired,” he said, his voice strained, too calm to be real. “Don’t mind me.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not for Remus, who wasn’t fooled for a second. The way Remus’ eyes flickered with concern told Sirius everything he didn’t want to admit. Remus could always tell when something was off. And now, Sirius could feel the weight of his own stupid behavior pressing down on him like a ton of bricks.

This is all my fault.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even bring himself to fix it. To apologize or explain what was really going on in his head.

God, I’m such an idiot.

Grant’s words echoed in his mind, mocking him. “Sore loser.” He wasn’t a sore loser. He was a bloody mess of confusion and misplaced anger. And Grant had seen it—seen the way he’d reacted, the way he’d tried to control the situation by pushing and prodding until everything felt like it was on the edge of breaking.

But the one thing Sirius couldn’t do? Let anyone know how much it hurt. How much it stung to watch Remus drift further away, even though he didn’t realize it. He couldn’t let himself say it out loud, because the second he did, everything would crumble. 

It was easier to keep it all bottled up, easier to act like none of it mattered. So he sat there, with that stupid, forced smile, trying to ignore the nagging voice in his head that told him he was losing something that was already slipping through his fingers.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

Sirius had never thought of himself as a selfless person. Not really. He liked to think he was good, sure—he had his morals, his principles—but at the end of the day, he knew he suffered from a bit of an ego problem. He acted according to what served him best, what made him feel good, what aligned with his carefully curated sense of self.

When he was feeling particularly delusional, he liked to tell himself it was because of his family. After all, virtues like empathy and consideration weren’t very high on the list of things he was taught as a child. The Black family code operated on power, strategy, and control—never on giving a fuck about what anyone else needed.

But most of the time, Sirius realized that wasn’t all there was to it. He had a choice in who he decided to be. And it was on him if he chose to be an asshole.

Which was why, when he spotted Grant Chapman sitting alone in the café, his first instinct was to turn on his heel and walk the other way.

He had nothing to gain from this interaction. Nothing at all.

But then his thoughts drifted—as they always did—to Remus.

Remus, who had always been too good, too kind, too patient for this world. Remus, who deserved everything—happiness, love, someone who would make him feel like he was the most important person in the room.

And the ugly truth? Sirius had spent weeks resenting Grant for being that person.

But it wasn’t Grant’s fault that Remus liked him, was it? It wasn’t Grant’s fault that Sirius had realized too fucking late what had been obvious all along. Sirius might not like the guy as a principle, but at the end of the day, it was his choice whether to hold onto that resentment or let it go.

And if he wanted to be better—do better— then he had to swallow his pride.

He exhaled, squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked toward Grant’s table before he could talk himself out of it.

Here goes nothing.

“Mind if I sit?” Sirius asked, trying for casual, even as his stomach twisted.

Grant barely looked up from his coffee, stirring it absentmindedly. “Should I warn the staff first? In case I need to call for security?”

Sirius rolled his eyes but pulled out the chair anyway. Grant arched a brow, although he didn’t exactly stop him. There was a beat, at first. Then, Sirius cleared his throat.

“So” he said, leaning back with an unreadable expression. “What’s up?”

Grant frowned, clearly not trusting his laid-back approach. “If you’re here to be a dick again, can you make it quick, at least?”

Sirius huffed, as if the mere accusation was ridiculous. “Why would you think that?”

Grant didn’t even bother answering. He just stared at him, unimpressed.

Sirius exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers on the table. “Alright, fine, I get it. I have been a bit of a dick.” He hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “And I wanted to—” A breath. “—apologize. For that.”

Grant quirked an eyebrow. “For what exactly? Being passive-aggressive? Staring me down like you were evaluating my worth as a human being? Or just the general aura of hostility?”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “All of it.”

Grant leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “And why, exactly, were you acting like that?”

Sirius clenched his jaw, looking away. “Not for no reason,” he muttered. “But… also not because of you, per se.”

Grant tilted his head, intrigued. “Go on.”

Sirius let out a slow breath. “It doesn’t matter, but—” He hesitated, shifting in his seat. “Look, I just—Remus deserves someone good. And you’re, you know—” He gestured vaguely. “—alright.”

Grant smirked. “How flattering.”

Sirius scowled. “You know what I mean.” He shook his head. “The point is that I’m sorry if I made you feel unwelcome, and I—” He hesitated again, nose scrunching slightly. “I hope it works out.”

Grant regarded him for a long moment, then finally took a sip of his coffee. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

He blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“It’s not my thing to hold grudges, so.” Grant shrugged, tapping his fingers against the side of his coffee cup. “You were being a twat, you realized it, end of story.”

Sirius was stunned. Something about how easy that was put him even more on edge. Perhaps it was the blunt realization that Grant Chapman was the embodiment of a good person without having to try at all, the kind of person who didn’t dwell. Who didn’t let his ego get in the way. Who could forgive, let go, and move on without any hidden agendas or inner turmoil.

Sirius wasn’t that person.

He was made of hidden agendas and inner turmoil. His entire existence had been a series of contradictions, his emotions tangled into knots that no amount of logic could untie. And here was Grant, untangled, uncomplicated, brushing off weeks of Sirius being a passive-aggressive arse like it was nothing.

God, no wonder Remus liked him. The fucker.

Sirius cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “Okay. Cool, cool, cool.” He smacked his lips, standing up. “Well, on that note, I’ll leave you to it th—”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Grant said, his tone maddeningly casual. “But—”

Sirius stopped mid-step.

Grant met his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “—me and Remus aren’t really a thing anymore. Well, not in a romantic sense anyway.”

Sirius felt his stomach drop.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, pulse thrumming louder in his ears. He tried to keep his face impassive, tried to keep his expression from shifting into anything too obvious, but he knew Grant was watching him. Noticing.

He swallowed, turning back slowly, as if he hadn’t just felt the wind knocked out of him.

“Oh,” he said, and it was pathetic.

Grant’s lips twitched, almost amused. “Oh?”

Sirius hesitated. “I mean—I’m sorry.”

Grant tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, too knowingly, he asked, “Are you?”

Sirius opened his mouth—then stopped.

Was he?

He should be, shouldn’t he? That was the proper reaction, wasn’t it? To at least offer a polite I’m sorry to hear that and a sympathetic nod.

But he wasn’t sorry. Not even a little.

If anything, it felt like relief was unraveling inside his chest, spilling into the spaces where frustration and resentment had been sitting for weeks.

Slowly, he shook his head. “No.” A pause. “Well. Kinda.” He frowned, shifting his weight. “I’m not a very good person, am I?”

Grant let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re honest. I respect that.”

Sirius exhaled, looking down at the floor. “The truth is—” He hesitated, the words thick in his throat. “I didn’t even know it at the time, but it all suddenly made sense, you know? Watching you two together, it hit me.”

Grant’s expression softened, something understanding settling in his features. “That you like him.”

Sirius felt heat rise up his neck. It felt strange—raw—to hear it spoken out loud.

He let out a dry, almost self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah. I do.” He exhaled. “And it turns out watching someone you like date someone else makes you act like a jealous arsehole. Who would’ve thought?”

Grant just stared at him, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed as he regarded Sirius.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Grant smirked. “I suspected. Now I know.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake.”

“So,” Grant said, resting his elbows on the table, “what are you gonna do about it?”

Sirius froze.

Because shit.

What was he going to do about it?

“Take it to my grave? I don’t know.”

“Playing the long game, then?”

“No, I actually intend to die very young while I’m still hot and desirable. You know, Jim Morrison style.”

“I don’t know. I’d peg you more as a Lemmy Kilmister type.”

“So seventy, then a cancer?” Sirius pretended to ponder. “Well, that’s only 53 years from now. Easy.”

“I don’t know” Grant shrugged. “Sounds like a long time to pine over someone.”

Sirius swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed. “It’ll pass though, right?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking himself or the boy, but Grant replied anyway.

“Everything does eventually.” He paused. “But will you be able to deal with it?”

“With what?”

“The not-knowing.”

I will. Probably.

Right?

“Anyway” Grant clapped him on the shoulder as he stood. “Glad we had this chat, Black. I forgive you for being an arse and--” He gave him a little smilee. “Good luck with figuring it out.”

Sirius huffed a quiet laugh. There was something absurd about all of this.

“You’re a real nice bloke, you know that?”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Grant raised his coffee cup in an imaginary toast. “Cheers.”

And with that, he was gone.

JAMES

Confidence was a weird thing. Sometimes, all it took was a big idea.

You could plan the best date possible in your head, anticipate every moment, every reaction, and suddenly you felt unstoppable. Like a footballer stepping onto the pitch with the game already won.

James Potter had that kind of confidence right now. He had crafted the perfect plan— the kind that would leave Regulus Black absolutely stunned by his brilliance, enchanted by his charm, and, most importantly, thoroughly impressed.

Now, all he had to do was execute it.

So, there he was, casually leaning against the wall outside the library, arms crossed, smirk in place, looking—for all intents and purposes—like a man who had all the time in the world.

Regulus emerged from the library, his bag slung over his shoulder, his usual sharp, focused expression in place—until he spotted James. His steps slowed immediately, his gaze narrowing in the way one might look at an unexpected—and deeply suspicious—phenomenon.

James grinned. “Black.”

Regulus stopped a few feet away, adjusting the strap of his bag with precise, deliberate movements. “What are you doing here?”

James tilted his head. “Waiting for you.”

Regulus stared.

Then, after a beat, skeptically, “Why?”

James pushed off the wall, stretching dramatically before taking a step closer. “Because I have a proposition for you.”

Regulus scoffed, shifting his weight onto one foot. “That sounds vaguely ominous.”

James pressed a hand over his heart, feigning deep, heartfelt offense. “I would never.”

Regulus’ expression remained thoroughly unimpressed.

James sighed, waving a hand. “Alright, sometimes I would. But not this time. This is a completely reasonable, non-suspicious proposal.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Get to the point.”

James’ smirk widened, his eyes glinting with undeniable mischief. “Let me take you out.”

Regulus blinked.

“Out.”

“Yes,” James said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You and me. A night of unparalleled fun, excitement, and intellectual stimulation.”

Regulus made a small, disbelieving noise in his throat. “Intellectual stimulation?”

“Absolutely.” James nodded solemnly, as if he were discussing an academic conference. “Look, you spend way too much time locked away in that dusty little world of yours. I’m offering you a break. A cultural experience, if you will.”

Regulus crossed his arms, his fingers tapping against his bicep in deliberate skepticism. “And what exactly does this ‘experience’ entail?”

James’ eyes gleamed. “That, is a surprise.”

Regulus sighed, tilting his head back slightly like he was already regretting asking. “And why, exactly, should I agree?”

James tilted his head, looking at him like the answer should be painfully obvious. “Because, deep down, you’re curious.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, a sharp, unimpressed sound. “If this is some elaborate scheme to prank me—”

“Scout’s honor,” James said immediately, holding up two fingers in a gesture of mock sincerity.

Regulus gave him a flat look. “You were never a scout.”

James grinned. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Regulus shook his head, clearly debating the merits of walking away. “And if I say no?”

James shrugged, casual. “Then you’ll never know what you’re missing.”

Regulus considered him. The way he did when analyzing a difficult problem, like he was mentally weighing all possible outcomes before making a move. His fingers drummed against his bicep, and James could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Then, finally—with a long-suffering sigh—Regulus muttered, “Fine.”

James beamed.

“Excellent.”

Regulus didn’t look particularly convinced, but he shook his head. “When and where?”

James smirked. “Let me surprise you.”

Regulus let out a sharp exhale, as if bracing himself for impact. “Just don’t make me regret this.”

James stepped back, grinning like he’d already won. “Oh, I won’t.”

As Regulus turned to leave, James couldn’t resist. “Oh, and wear something nice, Black. I do have standards.”

Regulus didn’t bother turning around—just flipped him off over his shoulder, his posture entirely regal.

James just laughed, already mentally nailing this victory to his wall of triumphs.

REGULUS

Confidence was an annoying thing.

James Potter had it in excess, the kind that made him think he could waltz through life and everything would fall into place for him.

Regulus, on the other hand, had spent years perfecting his ability to anticipate, calculate, prepare. He didn’t do things recklessly, didn’t allow himself to move without knowing exactly where he would land. Because anything less than certainty made him spiral.

And yet, somehow, he was here.

Standing on a quiet hill just outside of town, arms crossed, watching James Potter grin at him like he had already won some kind of invisible battle.

Regulus didn’t know what he’d been expecting when he agreed to this so-called cultural experience, but it definitely wasn’t this.

The city lights glowed faintly in the distance, but up here, there was nothing but the crisp autumn air and the vast stretch of sky above them. A telescope stood nearby, clearly set up with care, and a picnic blanket was spread out on the grass, complete with a thermos and two mugs waiting beside it.

Regulus stared. Then turned to James, unimpressed. “You’re joking.”

James grinned. “Nope.”

Regulus scoffed. “A telescope, Potter? Really?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” James tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something that shouldn’t have sent warmth curling at the edges of Regulus’ chest. “I happen to know you like this sort of thing.”

Regulus stilled slightly, fingers twitching at his sides. “Who told you that?”

James smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Regulus exhaled sharply, turning away before James could see something in his face. “So let me get this straight. You dragged me all the way out here, at night, for what? To stargaze?”

James shoved his hands into his pockets. “If we’re being technical, yes.” Then, after a beat, he added, “But also, because I wanted to hang out with you.”

Regulus blinked.

The words were so casual, so utterly uncomplicated, and yet they knocked something loose inside him.

He was quiet for a beat too long before scoffing. “That,” he said flatly, “is stupid.”

James snorted. “You’re just mad because you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.”

Regulus let out a slow, exasperated sigh, trying not to acknowledge how right James was. He turned his gaze back toward the sky, grounding himself in the familiarity of it. The air smelled of damp grass and autumn chill—a clean, quiet kind of solitude.

Not like the library, not like his usual places.

This was different.

“…What kind of telescope is it?” he asked after a pause.

James grinned, victorious. “A good one.”

Regulus shot him a glare. “That tells me nothing.”

James laughed, nudging him toward it. “Why don’t you take a look and find out?”

Regulus hesitated, eyeing him warily, before stepping forward and adjusting the scope with expert hands. He could feel James watching him, but he focused on fine-tuning the settings, on the feeling of control. He peered through the lens, scanning the sky.

“What do you see?” James asked, voice softer now.

Regulus was silent for a moment, adjusting the focus. “Jupiter. The moons are visible tonight.”

James hummed. “Sounds fake.”

Regulus huffed, stepping aside. “See for yourself, then.”

James leaned in, peering through the lens, and after a second, let out a low whistle. “Huh. Would you look at that.”

“Told you.”

James grinned. “Alright, you get one point. But you’re still on thin ice.”

Regulus shook his head, stepping back toward the picnic blanket as James flopped down beside him. The thermos turned out to be filled with hot chocolate, which earned James a mildly approving glance, though Regulus tried very hard to pretend he didn’t notice it.

He tried very hard not to notice a lot of things about James Potter.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the night stretching open above them. Regulus was trying to focus hard on anything but the boy beside him, trying very hard not to feel things.

It was easier when James was being insufferable—when he was teasing or arrogant or generally overbearing. Those were things Regulus knew how to handle. But this? This easy, quiet, disarmingly thoughtful side of James was not something he was prepared for.

The stars stretched above them, bright pinpricks in the deep navy of the sky, and for once, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. The telescope stood a few feet away, already forgotten in favor of the conversation that had unfolded instead.

Then, quietly, the question slipped out before Regulus could stop it.

“Why are you doing this?”

James turned his head toward him, blinking. “What?”

Regulus kept his gaze on the stars, as if the answer might be written somewhere between the constellations. “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “All of this.” His voice was carefully neutral, measured, but even he could hear the hesitation creeping in at the edges. “Why?”

James studied him for a moment before huffing out a soft laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Regulus finally looked at him, wary. “No.”

James’ lips tugged up slightly, like he was amused by the fact that Regulus hadn’t figured it out yet. “I like you, Regulus.”

Regulus’ grip on his mug tightened.

Something sharp and unwelcome curled in his stomach. His pulse jumped before he could stop it, and he fought the immediate urge to shut down, to dismiss it, to turn and walk away before this conversation could become something real.

He should have expected this. James had no filter, no hesitation, no self-preservation when it came to these sorts of things. He was bold. He was thoughtless. He was the type of person who said things out loud.

Regulus had never considered this a possibility.

Or rather, he had never let himself.

His lips parted, but James—as always—barreled forward. “As in, I like—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out too sharp, too fast.

James tilted his head, unfazed. “It’s true, though.”

Regulus inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if he could shake off the weight of the moment. “Don’t.” It was barely more than a whisper, but James was watching him too intently, too gently, like he wasn’t afraid of what he would find if he kept looking.

James exhaled, voice softer. “Reg—”

“But why?”

And for the first time that night, Regulus was unguarded. He hated the way it came out—not cold or dismissive, but genuinely confused.

James had never looked at him like he was something delicate before, but now? Now, his gaze shifted, considering, like he understood something that Regulus didn’t.

James shrugged. “I think you’re interesting.”

Regulus blinked, like he hadn’t expected something so simple.

“I don’t know,” James continued, unapologetic. “Do I need a reason?”

Regulus wanted to say yes. Because what about him could possibly warrant this? What about him made James want to do this? He wasn’t like James—he wasn’t easy, or charming, or effortlessly bright. He was sharp edges and walls, calculated distance and cold exteriors. He was a person people respected, maybe, but not someone people chose.

Not like this.

James was still looking at him, waiting.

Regulus exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering away. “This is ridiculous.”

James just laughed, tipping his head back to look at the sky. “And yet, here you are.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. He should say something, anything, to shut this down before it could settle into something real.

But he didn’t.

And James—James noticed.

A beat of silence passed. Then, softly, James asked, “Is this… something you want? Also?”

Regulus’ breath caught.

His heart felt like it had jumped to his throat, like the air had thinned around him. The word also settled too heavily between them, leaving no space for misinterpretation.

He knew the answer.

It had been there all along, buried under layers of dismissal and refusal, locked away before he could ever be foolish enough to admit it. But James had put it into words. And now there was no ignoring it.

“I—I…” Regulus’ voice caught, and he exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together. “I’m not saying I don’t, but—”

He didn’t know how to finish it.

James shifted, and suddenly—gently, carefully—his fingers brushed against Regulus’ hand.

Regulus went still.

It was tentative, deliberate. The warmth of James’ skin against his was so minor, so insignificant, but it sent something electric through him all the same.

James’ touch was light, like he was offering a way forward rather than demanding one. Regulus could still pull away.

He didn’t.

James’ palm was warm, the calluses on his fingertips a contrast against Regulus’ own. It was light but heavy, like it was settling into something that had been waiting to happen for too long.

Regulus stared at their hands, pulse loud in his ears.

James’ voice was soft. Careful. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Regulus finally looked at him.

James’ eyes were warm, steady, too open. There was no teasing, no expectation, no pressure—just patience.

“We can take it slow, yeah?” James offered.

Regulus’ fingers curled slightly in James’ grasp. He should back away. He should.

But he didn’t.

“Slow is good,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

James smiled—pleased, victorious, unbearably James.

And then, to his absolute horror, James gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Regulus’ stomach flipped. The heat crawled up his neck, his pulse still uneven.

James was still grinning, and it was infuriating--

but Regulus didn’t pull away.

EVAN

Sitting in the passenger seat of James’ car, Evan listened to him ramble, hands drumming idly on his knee as James went on about his date with Regulus.

“…And then he asked me why, which—honestly? Great question. Why wouldn’t I like him? Have you seen him?” James huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “But I said something cool, I think. And then—then, mate—he let me hold his hand. His hand.”

Evan smirked, glancing out the window. “So what, you’re getting married next week?”

James scoffed. “Please. At least give it a month.”

Evan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m happy for you, James.”

James flashed a grin. “I know. You should be. I’m a bloody genius.”

Evan rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, James tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

“You know,” he said, all casual, “it’s going to be cool, tonight.”

Evan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you actually managed to convince him.”

James grinned. “Played into his ego. It was almost too easy.”

Evan huffed a laugh. “You make it sound like you scammed him.”

“Did I?” James shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “Or did I just know my audience?”

Evan shook his head, leaning back against the seat. He had to admit, James was annoyingly good at this.

James shot him a sideways glance. “You excited?”

Evan hesitated. “I don’t know.”

James scoffed. “Nah. You are. You just won’t say it.”

Evan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Because maybe—just maybe—James was right.

***

The stadium pulsed with energy, the floodlights carving bright paths across the field, casting long, flickering shadows over the players as they warmed up. The air was thick with the scent of damp grass, fried food, and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke from the older spectators clustered near the railings.

James led the way through the crowd, practically buzzing with excitement, moving with the kind of restless energy that made it seem like he was the one about to play. Evan followed, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, while Barty trailed a step behind, unreadable as ever, his gaze flickering over the field with quiet scrutiny. Their seats were near the center, offering a prime vantage point without being so far back that they’d lose any of the finer details of the match. The Slytherin team was already on the pitch, passing the ball between them with crisp, practiced precision, their movements controlled and deliberate.

James, naturally, launched straight into his self-appointed role as commentator. He twisted in his seat, gesturing animatedly toward the players below as he began his analysis, filling Barty up on all the lore.

"See that? That’s Lestrange, their winger—quick as hell, but leaves miles of space behind him. We could exploit that if we ever get the chance." His tone was already brimming with strategy, as if he were mentally plotting a future takedown.

He pointed toward another figure on the field. “And that’s Mulciber. Absolute menace in defense. Loves a sneaky foul, especially when the ref isn’t looking.”

Evan snorted as he commented. "An asshole with a shin-kicking hobby."

James nodded solemnly. “Exactly. And that’s Avery—fast, but his left foot’s a disaster. Force him onto it, and he might as well be playing for us.”

Barty, who had been quiet up until now, gave a small nod toward another player. “What about him?”

Evan followed his gaze and immediately felt his stomach turn.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Standing tall in the center of the field, dark hair slicked back, eyes sharp and calculating, was a way too familiar figure. Even from this distance, there was something off about him—the way he carried himself, the effortless control in his movements, like he was orchestrating the entire game without breaking a sweat.

James’ tone cooled instantly. “That, is their captain. Tom bloody Riddle.”

Evan let out a sharp exhale. “God, I hate that guy.”

James gave a firm nod. “For good reason. He’s an arrogant little prick, but I’ll give him this—he’s good. Plays midfield, directs the entire game like a bloody chessboard, and never—never—loses his cool.”

Barty didn’t react, just kept watching the field with the same quiet, unreadable expression. “Any weaknesses?”

James snorted. “None that I’ve found. But if someone ever does find one, I hope they expose the bastard for it. Would serve him right.”

The sharp blast of the referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling kickoff.

Evan leaned forward instinctively, his body already falling into the rhythm of the game, his eyes tracking the Slytherin players as they moved. And—predictably—they played dirty.

It was all there, the small, calculated fouls just out of the referee’s sight. The quick tugs at jerseys, the subtle elbows, the way they pressed so aggressively up the pitch it forced mistakes.

James scoffed, shaking his head. “See? See? They get away with everything.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “I know. They always have.”

Beside him, Barty was silent, studying the game with that same intense focus he had whenever something really caught his attention. He hadn’t said much, but Evan could tell he was assessing everything, cataloging every move, every weakness.

By halftime, the score was 3-1 in Slytherin’s favor.

James stretched, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Alright, I need a drink before I actually combust. Either of you want anything?”

Evan shook his head, still watching the field.

Barty barely spared James a glance.

James let out a dramatic sigh. “Cool. Love this team spirit. You two just sit there and sulk, then.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Evan and Barty alone in the stands. The absence of his voice left a strange vacuum between them, the hum of the stadium swelling in its place—cheers, distant whistles, the steady thud of the bass-heavy music playing over the speakers.

Evan barely noticed any of it.

Because, without meaning to, his gaze drifted—not toward the field, but toward Barty.

He was sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes tracking the movements of the players as they cooled down. The stadium lights cast sharp shadows across his features, highlighting the angles of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his brows furrowed just slightly in concentration, ever so intense, his focus a blade, and utterly good-looking. 

Yeah. This was going to be a problem.

Evan swallowed, pulse unsteady, and barely had time to process the thought before Barty, without turning, muttered, “Stop staring.”

Evan jolted, his heart kicking up like he’d been caught doing something illicit.

“I’m not—”

Barty finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You always do that.”

Evan flushed instantly. “Do what?”

Barty tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp, like he was assessing something. Like he was assessing him.

“Look at me like you’re trying to figure something out.”

Evan’s mouth went dry.

Because—yeah. That was exactly what he was doing.

Trying to figure out how to deal with the all-consuming crush he had on the boy sitting next to him.

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “And what if I am?”

Barty blinked at that, a flicker of something flashing across his face—surprise, maybe, or something else Evan couldn’t quite place. He looked like he was about to say something, but then, instead, he exhaled and turned back to the field.

A few beats of silence passed before Evan spoke again.

“You really like this, don’t you?”

Barty frowned slightly. “What?”

Evan nodded toward the field. “Football.”

Barty gave him a look that clearly said, Isn’t that obvious?

“It’s a stupid question.”

Evan shook his head. “No, I mean—you really like it.”

Barty huffed, gaze flicking back toward the pitch. “I guess.”

Evan studied him for a second. “Why?”

Barty didn’t answer immediately. He kept watching the field, his expression unreadable, eyes scanning the players like he was mentally cataloging every move, every shift in formation. His fingers twitched slightly, like he wanted to be out there, in it.

Eventually, he exhaled. “It makes sense.”

Evan tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Barty shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting his posture like the words felt too revealing to say while sitting still. “It’s… predictable. There are rules. Structures. You can’t just do whatever you want. It’s about control. Playing well isn’t just instinct—it’s knowing exactly what to do and when to do it. You make a decision, and you stick to it.” He huffed. “I like that. Consistency. S’good.”

Evan blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“Not much of an improv guy, then?” he asked, though his voice was softer now, more thoughtful than teasing.

Barty’s jaw tightened slightly. “Not really.”

Evan hummed, tilting his head as he watched him. The way Barty spoke about football—it was careful, measured. Like it was more than a game to him. Like it was something solid to hold onto.

Before he could think twice about it, he smiled.

“That’s funny,” he said.

Barty frowned. “What?”

Evan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Because you make it seem so natural.”

Barty blinked, looking at him properly now, like Evan had said something that didn’t compute.

Evan hesitated, then said, voice uncharacteristically sincere, “When you’re playing.”

He didn’t know why he said it—why it felt important to say—but he continued, pushing through the weight in his throat.

“It doesn’t really translate, you know? Watching you move on the pitch is probably the most graceful thing I’ve ever seen. Like some—” He let out a breathless, almost self-conscious laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Some ballet shit.”

Barty blinked, looking at him like he’d spoken in another language.

Evan realized, belatedly, that he’d just said all of that out loud. And not just out loud—to Barty Crouch.

His face went warm. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

“Never mind, that was—”

“That’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

Barty’s voice was quiet. Almost hesitant.

Evan turned back, startled.

Barty wasn’t looking at him. Not fully. But there was something about the way his posture shifted, the way his fingers curled against his knee, like he wasn’t sure why he’d admitted that at all.

Evan swallowed, the weight of the moment pressing between them. “You’re welcome?”

The air felt different. Charged in a way Evan couldn’t quite name.

And then, suddenly, Barty shifted, clearing his throat. Clearly uncomfortable with the silence, he muttered, “You’re good too.” His voice was clipped, like he was trying to move past it.

Evan smirked, deciding to play along. “Yeah, I’m alright.” He shrugged, casual. “Don’t have your grace, though.”

And then—

Without thinking, without hesitating, Barty replied.

“I don’t know about that. You’re pretty nice to watch.”

The second the words were out, Barty froze.

Evan did too.

The stadium noise dulled, fading into static, because what?

Evan’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breath catching.

“What?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Barty opened his mouth—

And then—

“Alright, what did I miss?”

James dropped into his seat between them, completely oblivious, nursing a giant coke.

Barty turned away immediately, his posture suddenly stiff, entirely too focused on the field—like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just said that.

Evan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to answer, voice tight. “Eh, nothing much.”

But fuck.

That was something.

***

The match had ended, and the two of them were loitering outside the stadium, waiting for James. He’d vanished off to the toilets, leaving Evan and Barty standing near the entrance, surrounded by clusters of fans and players filtering out into the night. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, damp grass, and the lingering burn of cigarette smoke from a group of older spectators near the exit.

Evan exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, that was an intense game.”

Barty shrugged, ever analytical. “They’re a strong opponent, for sure.”

“You mean they cheat better.”

“That too.”

Evan let out a quiet chuckle, about to say something else, when a smooth voice cut through the hum of the crowd.

“Well, well. Rosier.”

Evan’s entire body tensed before he even turned. He knew that voice. Knew it from every match against Slytherin, every post-game scuffle, every smug fucking comment that he had ever made.

He turned slowly, already bracing himself, and there he was—Tom fucking Riddle.

The Slytherin captain stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression an infuriating mix of amusement and calculation. His dark eyes flicked between Evan and Barty, assessing, cataloging, like he was working out where to strike.

“Came to check on the competition?” Riddle asked, tilting his head, smirk widening. “Are you that threatened by us already?”

Evan rolled his eyes, huffing. “You wish.” Although, technically, it was the exact reason they were here.

Riddle let out a quiet chuckle, clearly entertained. Then his gaze slid to Barty, narrowing slightly in interest.

“And you might be?”

Barty barely spared him a glance. “Not interested.”

Evan bit back a snort.

Riddle, however, looked delighted. “Oh, I like you already.”

Evan sighed. “Don’t.”

Riddle ignored him, stepping closer—not enough to invade personal space, but just enough to let them know he could. His presence had always been like that. Coldly invasive.

“Come on, Rosier. I didn’t take you for the type to scout outside your own team. Looking for something new?”

Evan scoffed, unimpressed. “You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are, Riddle.”

Riddle grinned, teeth flashing in the stadium lights. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Evan clenched his jaw, already so fucking done with him. But before he could snap something back, Riddle hummed, tilting his head slightly.

“Look at you, Rosier,” he mused. “You’ve almost lost all of your baby fat. Could almost mistake you for a real player now.”

Evan rolled his eyes, already moving to respond before he even thought about it. “Is this your way of asking me out, Riddle? You seem awfully aware of my body.”

Something flickered across Riddle’s face. His smirk remained, but it tightened at the edges, his posture going unnaturally stiff—like a mask slipping for half a second.

Then he scoffed, voice dropping into something lower, meaner.

“I can see why you’d think that. That’s always been your team’s issue, hasn’t it? Too much bonding, not enough bite.”

Evan frowned, his gaze narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Riddle’s smirk sharpened, slow and deliberate, like a knife sliding between ribs.

“It means that just because your team is full of fucking fairies doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

The words landed like a slap, sharp and ugly against the cool night air.

Evan reacted instantly.

His body went taut, his jaw clenched, fire flaring in his chest as he took a step forward, fists already curling—

Barty stopped him.

Not forcefully. Not obviously. Just a flick of his hand, subtle but firm—a silent stop.

Evan barely noticed it at first, too caught in his own fury, but then Riddle’s gaze flicked to the movement, his smirk returning, slower this time. Pleased.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “My point exactly.”

And that was it.

Barty—who had been perfectly composed until now—stepped forward.

Evan barely had time to register the shift, but it was there.

Something in the air changed. Something sharp, dangerous.

Barty’s presence, normally quiet but assured, turned lethal. His voice, when he spoke, was low, controlled—but it was steel underneath.

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re getting at,” he said, voice dangerously even. “But if you say one more thing, I will shut you up myself.”

Evan stilled.

Barty’s hands twitched, fingers nearly curling into fists, his entire body coiled like a wire ready to snap.

And fuck—

Evan could feel his pulse hammering for an entirely different reason now.

Riddle’s smirk widened slightly, the exact reaction he’d been hoping for. “Interesting.”

Evan’s breath caught. He had no idea if Barty was about to swing or not, but he didn’t want to find out.

Before he could think twice about it, he moved.

Just slightly—just enough to brush a hand against Barty’s arm.

It wasn’t quite stopping him, but grounding him, anchoring him back to the present.

Barty barely reacted, but Evan could feel it—the flicker of restraint pulling back into place.

Before anything else could happen, a voice cut through the tension.

“Alright, what is happening here?”

James.

He strode toward them, brows raised, eyes flicking between the three of them like he could smell the residual electricity in the air. “Looking for trouble, Riddle? I’d figured you’d save that for the pitch.”

Riddle smiled, all fake politeness. “Not at all, Potter. Just having a chat.”

James snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah? Well, chat’s over.” He clapped a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “We were just leaving.”

Riddle held James’ gaze for a second longer, then let out a lazy sigh. “Whatever you say, captain.”

His eyes flicked back to Barty, lingering just a second too long.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

Barty’s jaw was tight, his eyes dark, but he said nothing.

Then, finally, Riddle turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving only the lingering echo of his words behind.

Silence stretched between them, tense and charged.

James sighed heavily, turning to them, exasperated. “Jesus. Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes.”

Evan exhaled, finally unclenching his fists. “Well, you did make us come here.”

James rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and clearly, that was a mistake.”

Evan let out a breathless chuckle, trying to shake off the encounter, but his mind was still stuck on Barty.

The way he’d stepped in. The way he’d looked at Riddle.

The way he’d defended him.

It was unexpected. It was—

Oh god.

It was hot.

***

The ride back, to no one’s surprise, was tense. James had tried to diffuse it with his usual ramblings—detailing everything from game strategies to some ridiculous story about a pub fight he’d once witnessed—but even his efforts couldn’t shake the weight in the air. Barty had sunk into silence the moment they left the stadium, his gaze fixed out the window, expression unreadable. It wasn’t unusual for him to be quiet, but this was different. He wasn’t just withdrawn—he was somewhere else entirely, jaw tight, fingers curled against his knee like he was holding onto something invisible and burning.

Evan, on the other hand, was stuck on replay. He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened outside the stadium. Riddle, the sharp bite of his words, the way Barty had stepped in. The anger in his voice. The way his body had tensed—not just in irritation, but in something closer to protectiveness.

Evan had always known Barty had a temper. He’d seen it before, felt it even. But this—this wasn’t the same. Barty hadn’t lashed out because he was being slighted. He had lashed out because of Evan.

That realization sat heavy in Evan’s chest, tangled somewhere between warmth and confusion.

It wasn't like they were friends. Sure, they’d been...something lately. More tolerant of each other. Less biting, less volatile. But that didn’t explain the way Barty had reacted tonight. How, for all his usual detachment, something about Evan being the one at the receiving end of Riddle’s words had made him snap.

And then there was that moment in the stands. The way Barty had looked at him when they were left alone, the way his voice had softened—just barely—when he admitted it. Evan turned that moment over in his head, again and again. How Barty’s eyes had flickered, how he had looked almost surprised by his own words.

I don’t know about that. You’re pretty nice to watch.

So when James finally pulled up in front of Barty’s place, and Barty—without so much as a word—unbuckled his seatbelt and made to leave, Evan’s thoughts were already spiraling toward one singular conclusion.

He had to make sense of this. Of Barty.

Barty was halfway out the door when James called, “Try not to punch anyone in your sleep, Crouch.”

Barty rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he shut the door behind him. He didn’t look back as he strode toward the front steps, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Evan watched him go, his pulse kicking up.

And then, before he even knew what he was doing, he reached for the door handle.

“Let me out here,” he said, his voice coming out steadier than he felt.

James barely had time to process it before pausing, his hand hovering over the gear shift. “You sure?”

Evan nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. I’ll walk.”

James’ smirk was instant, slow and knowing. “Right.”

“Shut up.”

James only laughed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

Evan shot him a glare before stepping out of the car, shutting the door behind him. The sound of the engine revving back up was the only thing breaking the quiet as James drove off, leaving him standing there on the pavement.

Barty was just about to disappear inside when Evan called out, “Hey—Barty, wait.”

Barty paused mid-step, turning around, clearly confused.

“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning. “Where’s James?”

Evan shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I told him I’d walk.”

Barty’s frown deepened. “Why?”

Evan exhaled, staring at him—really looking at him, like he was seeing him for the first time all over again. His hair was still slightly damp from the night air, his shirt loose and rumpled from the game. The glow of the streetlight hit his face just right, casting sharp shadows along his jawline, his cheekbones.

Fucking hell, Evan thought. So unfair.

“I just wanted to say…” He trailed off, searching for the words.

Barty raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Evan swallowed. “You defended me. Earlier. With Riddle.”

Barty’s expression barely flickered. He just crossed his arms, shifting on his feet. “Yeah. I guess.”

Evan didn’t let it go. “Why?”

Barty hesitated. Finally, after a beat, he exhaled sharply. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I didn’t think about it. I just got—” He huffed, running a hand through his hair, like he was frustrated with himself. “I just got angry.”

Evan’s stomach flipped. He should leave it at that. Should nod, say something easy, let Barty go inside and end the night on a note that wasn’t teetering on the edge of something messy. But he didn’t. Because Evan was tired of playing whatever game this was. And because something about the way Barty looked at him right now—shoulders tense, gaze flickering, something raw and unresolved lingering between them—made him reckless.

Bold, even.

So he pushed.

“But why?” he asked again, his voice lower, deliberate. He stepped closer. “Why did it make you angry?”

Barty tensed, his whole body going still. “Go home, Rosier.” He had meant it to sound cold, but there was no bite to it. Not enough to convince neither of them anyway. Just strained effort, like he was holding something back.

Evan knew then that he wouldn’t stop. He was toeing the line now, and he knew it, but he wanted to. He wanted to push—just a little, just enough to see.

“You don’t even like me that much, right?” he said, tilting his head. His voice was light, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, watching for any reaction. “So why did it bother you so much?”

Barty’s jaw clenched. “You’re being annoying, Rosier.”

Evan took another step, slow, deliberate.

“That’s not an answer.” Because it wasn’t, and they weren’t going to do that. Not again.

Barty’s gaze flicked away for the briefest moment, as if looking for an escape. He exhaled sharply and stepped back, his back just centimeters away from the door now.

“You should head home,” he said quickly, voice clipped.

Evan almost laughed. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Yeah, and maybe you should listen.”

There it was again—that tightness in his voice. The barely concealed urgency. A warning, one that Evan knew he should heed, a sign for any normal person to drop it. Unfortunately, there was nothing even remotely reasonable about Evan. Not when it came to the boy in front of him. Nothing but utter madness and confusion.

“You know, I used to think you just hated me,” Evan mused, his voice slow, measured. “But that’s not it, is it?”

Barty’s glare sharpened, his jaw set like stone.

Evan smirked, stepping even closer, their shoes nearly touching now. “You don’t know what to do with me.” His voice dipped, something lower, something that curled around the space between them. “And that makes you nervous, doesn’t it?”

The boy’s gaze snapped to him, sharp. “Stop it.”

Evan didn’t. His pulse was hammering, but he wasn’t stopping. Not when Barty was looking at him like that, wide-eyed and caught between fight and flight.

For a second, it looked like Barty might step back, turn away—

But then he didn’t.

Instead, he closed his eyes. His head fell back against the door, and he let out a deep, uneven sigh, like it physically pained him to even think about it.

“I don’t know why, okay?” Barty finally admitted, voice tight, raw. “You don’t make any sense to me.”

A sudden ache tightened in Evan’s chest at the weight of those words. His lips pulled into a soft, barely-there smile—a gesture that felt both heavy and gentle. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his voice quieter now.

“Let me try, then” He cleared his throat. “To make sense of it?”

Barty didn’t respond, just stood there, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.

Slowly, deliberately, Evan raised his hand, fingertips brushing lightly against the boy’s cheek. The touch was so soft it could have been imagined, barely there at all. Barty’s body went rigid, a sharp breath caught in his throat, his entire frame tense, as if unsure of what was happening.

Evan tilted his head, his voice a near-whisper. “Close your eyes again.”

Barty’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering, but he still complied.

“Ev—"

“Shh,” Evan murmured, his own breath shaky, hands itching at his sides. “I just—I gotta do it. I need to see something, I just—” He exhaled, barely keeping himself together. “You can punch me afterward if you want, but—”

He never finished his sentence.

Because he leaned in.

The kiss was firm, but not forceful—Evan just pressing forward, drawn like gravity. His lips met Barty’s softly, a careful, tentative touch. For a split second, all he could feel was the warmth of him, the sharp inhale Barty took at the contact.

But Barty didn’t move.

He didn’t push in, but he didn’t push away either. He just… froze.

Evan’s stomach twisted. A jolt of panic shot through him, realization slamming down. Shit. He was being reckless, wasn’t he? Barty wasn’t responding, wasn’t—

He should pull back. His fingers twitched, instinct screaming at him to retreat, to step away before he made this even worse, before—

A sound.

A quiet, barely-there groan, escaping from the back of Barty’s throat before he could stop it. Evan felt it—heard it, felt the way it vibrated against his lips, the way Barty’s breath hitched. And something flared inside him, something hot and heady, knocking the air straight out of his lungs. How could a sound be so sweet and so obscene at the same time, he wasn’t aware. But it was there.

I’m kissing Barty Crouch.

And for all of his anger, for all of his denial, it still felt like Barty Crouch wanted him too.

Evan’s fingers curled around Barty’s sleeves, not pushing him away but holding him there, keeping him close. His own head felt light, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it. For a few breathless seconds, it was just them—the quiet street, the distant hum of cars, the warmth of Barty’s body pressed into his. He was just about ready to combust.

But then—

A light flicked on inside the house.

They both stopped dead in their tracks.

A shadow moved behind the curtain.

Barty yanked himself back so fast Evan barely registered the loss. He took two full steps away, his face completely unreadable. He was breathing unevenly, his pupils blown wide. His whole body looked tense, like he was one wrong word away from bolting.

Evan stared at him, lips still tingling, pulse pounding in his throat.

Barty turned away, voice low and so clipped it sounded like a cut-off breath:

“You should really go now.”

And this time, Evan knew it wasn’t a suggestion.

Barty didn’t wait for him to respond. He turned, walked inside, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Evan stayed there, still pressed against the side of the house, still stunned.

Then—very slowly—he touched his lips, as he whispered to himself:

“…Holy shit.”

He then exhaled a breathy laugh, grinning to himself.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

BARTY

Barty woke up like he’d been shot out of sleep.

For a few disoriented seconds, he didn’t know why—his room was quiet, the early morning light was just beginning to creep through the curtains, and his alarm had yet to go off. But his body was tense, his heartbeat was hammering in his chest like he’d run a mile, unnervingly fast for someone who had been asleep mere seconds ago.

Then it came back; the event of the previous night hitting him like a freight train derailing at full speed.

Evan.

Evan kissing him.

Barty groaned, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow, as if suffocating himself for five seconds would erase the entire fucking thing from existence. Maybe, if he stayed like that long enough, the memory would just cease to exist.

It didn’t.

It didn’t because the problem—the real problem—was that it wasn’t just a memory.

If it had been, Barty could have buried it, shoved it into some dark corner of his mind where inconvenient things went to die. He was good at that. He had years of practice.

But this wasn’t just in his head.

It was in his body.

It lived in the way his skin still prickled with phantom warmth, in the way his stomach clenched whenever he let his guard slip for even a second. It was muscle memory now—Evan’s lips pressed against his, the shape of his touch lingering like a brand, the way something sharp and unfamiliar had curled low in his gut before his brain had caught up and slammed the panic button. That quiet, breathless noise that had slipped out before Barty had even registered what was happening.

His stomach flipped.

No. No. Absolutely not.

This wasn’t happening.

He refused to let this happen.

Barty shoved the covers off, sitting up too fast. His head spun slightly, but he ignored it, scrubbing a hand over his face, willing himself to focus on anything else.

But his mind wouldn’t let up.

Because what the fuck was that? What did it mean? What did he mean?

He hadn’t kissed back. Had he? No, definitely not. He’d frozen, gone completely still, like his body had no fucking clue how to process what was happening.

But.

But.

He hadn’t pulled away either. Not immediately. Not instantly. And fuck, the fact that Evan had even gotten that close—he should have shoved him off before it had even happened, should have put a stop to it the second he’d realized what Evan was about to do.

But he hadn’t.

Barty swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into the mattress like it could anchor him. His breath came uneven, shallow, and he clenched his hands into fists, willing himself to steady.

He needed to stop thinking about this.

Or, at the very least, he needed to twist it into something else—something smaller, something insignificant.

Because right now, it felt too real.

Not real in the sense that it happened—he wasn’t that delusional. He knew it had. But real in the sense that it mattered.

And it didn’t.

It didn’t mean anything.

People kissed people all the time. It wasn’t some big revelation, wasn’t some life-altering thing. He wasn’t—he couldn’t—

No.

That wasn’t him.

Barty Crouch did not like people. Not in general, not that way. Affection was a foreign concept, something distant and hazy that other people wasted their time on. But liking a boy like that? That was even more impossible.

Because it just—it wasn’t a thing that could happen to him. It wasn’t—

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Barty flinched like he’d been caught, snatching it up so fast he nearly dropped it.

It was just the morning alarm.

But it sent a jolt of pure dread through him because it meant he had to go to school. Which, itself, meant he had to see Evan.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the snooze button.

He could call in sick. Stay in bed. Avoid this whole mess entirely. But that would make it worse, wouldn’t it? It would only allow the…thing, to take on a bigger, more important place in his mind, when really it was just a mistake. And mistakes didn’t mean anything unless you let them.

So, Barty exhaled, forcing himself to his feet.

***

He had always found something oddly calming about the moments before class started—the lull of conversation, the occasional thud of a book hitting a desk, the slow trickle of students settling into their seats before the teacher came in. It was predictable. A structure. Something that didn’t demand anything from him.

Today though, that wait felt excruciatingly long.

Because he couldn’t sit still. His mind was moving a mile a minute, looping through the same three-second memory like a broken record. He hadn’t seen Evan yet, thankfully. Or he had, but from afar, and he had made sure to disappear before the boy could spot him. He felt like he was on a manhunt, waiting for the moment he’d get caught. He kept looking at the door, as if the boy would burst out any minute even though he wasn’t in that class. And, if he did, what would he do? God, perhaps he’d already told the rest of the team about it, the school, even. I’ve kissed him, Barty’s let himself be kissed by a boy, and if it wasn’t for us being interrupted he would have—

“Barty, when’s your birthday?”

He blinked.

Snapped his head to the side.

Pandora was watching him, chin resting on her palm, expression curious. A magazine sat open on her desk, glossy pages slightly curled.

Barty frowned. “Why?”

She turned the magazine toward him, revealing a page of horoscopes. “Your sign. I’m checking if the stars have anything fun to say about you.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Why does it matter?”

Pandora just smiled. “Indulge me.”

He sighed. “November 1^st.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait—that’s so soon! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Barty shrugged. She clicked her tongue, scanning the page. “Well, Scorpio, apparently you’re in for a ‘month of unexpected emotions and revelations.”

Barty’s entire body went rigid.

Pandora hummed, oblivious to his spiraling. “Also, you should ‘beware of impulsive decisions’ and ‘be honest with yourself about your feelings.’”

Barty stared at her, unimpressed.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—” He gestured vaguely at the page. “That’s bullshit.”

She frowned. Although, before she could say anything else, the door swung open, and Mr. Tonks strolled in.

Thank fucking god.

“Morning, scholars!” he greeted, dropping his worn-out leather satchel onto his desk. He adjusted his glasses, surveying the room like he was actually happy to be here. “Before we begin, a quick announcement.”

Barty leaned back in his chair, grateful for the distraction.

“During your half-term break,” Mr. Tonks continued, “for those of you not jetting off to glamorous destinations, my wonderful wife is putting on a play at the community theatre.” He grinned. “And because I’m an exceptional husband, I promised I’d extend an invitation.”

A few students groaned.

“Come on,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d like to remind you all that theatre is literature in its purest form. And bonus—if you come, you’ll get to see me as a doting, supportive spouse. A rare sight, indeed...”

“How fun!” Pandora exclaimed, nudging Barty with her elbow. He nodded lightly. 

The rest of class passed in a blur. He barely retained a word of whatever analysis Mr. Tonks was leading, barely noticed when the bell rang and everyone began packing up.

It wasn’t until they were on their way to the cafeteria—Pandora, Regulus, and him—that his brain caught up again.

“I wonder what his wife is like,” Pandora mused as they walked.

Regulus, ever unimpressed, deadpanned, “I’m more surprised that he has a wife at all.”

“What do you mean? He’s pretty charming.”

“No, I mean I was convinced he had a husband.” He shrugged. “Given the age-old English teacher stereotype.”

“Oh,” The girl let out a stifled laugh. “I can see that.”

Regulus hummed. “Statistically speaking, they are overwhelmingly gay.”

“Anyway, I might go,” Pandora said, going back to the play. “It could be interesting.” She glanced at Regulus. “What about you?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be in France for that dreadful ceremony.”

She turned to Barty. “And you?”

Barty shrugged, noncommittal. “Maybe. Could be interesting.”

They sat down, trays clattering against the table, and the conversation swirled around him, voices blending into background noise. Pandora was saying something about the theatre performance, Regulus was making some dry remarks, and Barty found himself settling into it with enough ease to avoid suspicion.

He focused on his food, methodically cutting up his sandwich into smaller bites he wasn’t even sure he’d eat, nodding along at the right moments. It was working. He could do this. He could act like everything was normal.

But then, halfway through Pandora debating the merits of classical theatre, Barty realized his caffeine withdrawal was starting to make his head pound.

“I’m getting a coffee,” he muttered, pushing his chair back. “You guys want anything?”

Pandora shook her head, still absorbed in the conversation. Regulus didn’t even bother looking up from his tray, just lifting a dismissive hand.

Barty didn’t wait for a response before slipping away, weaving through the cafeteria toward the coffee stand. He took a steadying breath as he joined the queue, rolling his shoulders back. The longer he stayed moving, the better. He just needed to keep himself busy, keep himself distracted.

Because if he didn’t—

“Hi.”

Barty nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned, stiff, finding Evan standing beside him, far too casual for someone who had just materialized out of nowhere.

Evan tilted his head, hands tucked in his pockets, exuding nothing but nonchalance. “You sleep well?”

Barty narrowed his eyes. His stomach flipped unhelpfully.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he shot back, voice a little too sharp.

Evan frowned, his easy demeanor flickering. He studied Barty for half a second, something calculating in his gaze. “No reason. Just asking.”

Barty turned back toward the line, jaw tightening. He needed to end this now.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Right.”

The silence stretched just long enough to make Barty feel like he’d won—that maybe Evan would just drop it, maybe he’d go back to whatever nonsense he was usually occupied with—

But then—

“You’re avoiding me.”

Barty stiffened.

He turned his head just enough to glare. “I’m not.”

Evan crossed his arms, unconvinced. “Yeah, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose. “What do you want from me?”

Evan tilted his head, considering. “Oh, I don’t know.” His voice was deceptively light. “Maybe just a conversation?”

Barty scoffed, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Evan made a noise at that—an amused exhale, like he’d expected that answer and wasn’t buying it for a second.

Barty clenched his teeth.

A beat.

Then Evan shrugged, dropping his arms to his sides. “You sure?”

Barty didn’t answer.

“Because you seem off,” Evan continued. “I don’t know, maybe I’m imagining things, but—”

Barty whipped around. “I said I’m fine, Rosier.”

Evan arched a brow, entirely unfazed. “Yeah. You’re real convincing.”

Barty hated him, hated how he could just stand there, so at ease while Barty’s entire world had tilted on its axis.

The boy exhaled, rocking back slightly. “Look, don’t you think we should at least talk about it?”

Barty barely stopped himself from flinching.

“No. I actually think we shouldn’t.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh, something more incredulous than amused. “You’re really doing this?”

Barty scowled. “I’m not doing anything.”

Evan’s smirk was instant. “Right.”

Barty wanted to strangle him.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his whole body wound so tight he felt like he might snap if Evan said one more word.

But Evan just looked at him.

That infuriating, knowing look.

Like he could see right through him, like he was peeling him apart piece by piece and cataloging every single weakness. Like he knew—really, truly knew—exactly what he was doing to him.

Barty’s breath was sharp through his nose, his jaw aching from how tightly he was clenching it. He needed Evan to drop it. Needed him to shut the fuck up before—

“We’ve got to have it out, Barty.”

Evan’s voice was softer now, smirk gone, but the words still sank their teeth in, digging under Barty’s skin.

Then Evan sighed, leaning in ever so slightly—closer, closer, too fucking close—before murmuring, “I can’t pretend I didn’t—”

Barty moved before he thought.

A sharp step forward, a shift in his weight, a subtle but deliberate attempt to cut him off—to shut him up before he could say something neither of them could take back.

His chest was tight, pulse hammering against his ribs. The back of his neck burned, suddenly too aware of the voices around them, the people around them. It was probably highly irrational, but he couldn’t help but feel like the entire world at large had stop to listen.

His lips barely parted before the words tumbled out, hoarse, quiet, but edged with enough warning that even Evan had to recognize the danger in them:

“Not here.”

His voice was low, like he was barely holding it together, like it was taking everything in him not to bolt.

Evan tilted his head. “No?”

“Meet me after school,” Barty said, low and clipped, voice almost a growl. “By the bleachers.”

Evan blinked, then—his smile widened.

Barty immediately regretted everything.

“Sure,” Evan said easily. “Looking forward to it.”

Barty turned back toward the queue, determined to ignore him now.

Because if he looked at Evan for one more second, he might do something fucking stupid.

SIRIUS

The thing about realizations was that they didn’t let you breathe. They sunk their claws in, settled under your skin, and refused to let go.

Sirius had always thought he knew himself. He was reckless but self-assured, he liked things that were fun and thrilling and had never spent more than a second agonizing over his emotions. That was for other people. For people who took life too seriously. He was quite adamant about that stance. He firmly preached it.

That is, until he was met with the realization of his crush on Remus Lupin.

Now, everything felt serious and consequential.

Perhaps this was some sort of karma for how carefree he had been in his life. Perhaps the gods above decided it was time for him to discover overthinking to an agonizing degree.

Sirius sighed, rubbing his fingers over his forehead like he could smooth out the thoughts drilling into his skull. He was sitting outside, sprawled across a bench near the school entrance, staring at nothing in particular while his brain spiraled against his will.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the muffled sounds of students loitering before heading home, snippets of conversation floating past. But it all felt far away, like he was on a different plane of existence entirely.

How the fuck was he supposed to do this?

Regulus had basically handed him his own feelings on a silver platter, then Grant had confirmed that he wasn’t in the way anymore, and yet Sirius still had no idea what to do with the situation. He thought maybe, once he admitted to himself that he liked Remus, everything else would fall into place. That there would be a natural next step—a logical progression where he would just do something about it.

But, unsurprisingly, it wasn’t that simple.

Because Remus wasn’t just anyone. He was Remus. His person. His calm in the storm. The one thing Sirius could never afford to lose.

What if he fucked it up?

What if Remus just…didn’t see him that way?

What if Sirius put himself out there, fully and shamelessly, only for Remus to smile at him in that soft, unbothered way and say, Oh, Pads. That’s sweet, but—

Nope. Nope. He refused to spiral about it again.

Sirius groaned, dropping his head against the back of the bench. This was hell. This was actual, tangible hell.

And then—

“Oi.”

A shadow loomed over him before James dropped down onto the bench beside him, sprawling out with all the confidence of someone who didn’t second-guess a single thing in his life.

Sirius barely blinked, still slumped in existential crisis mode. “Prongs.”

James sighed, stretching his arms out. “Just saw Pandora.”

Sirius hummed absently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” James ran a hand through his hair. “She asked me for help throwing Barty a party.”

Sirius barely registered the words at first, too tangled in his own thoughts. Then, something clicked. He blinked, looking over at James. “Why?”

James shrugged. “It’s his birthday soon. Pandora wants to do something nice for him. You know, with his teammates, friends. That kind of thing.”

Sirius hummed, rolling his eyes. “Right. Great, I guess. We can do that. Don’t care much for him, but a party’s a party.”

James smirked, shifting to get more comfortable. “Yeah, well. He’s growing on me.”

Sirius gave him a look. “What, you’ve got a soft spot for Crouch now?”

James just grinned, letting the comment roll off him. “What can I say? I like to hang out with pricks.”

Sirius snorted, shaking his head before zoning out again. His fingers drummed against his knee.

And then, a second later—

Wait.

A party.

A party.

His thoughts ground to a halt. His mind started spinning, an idea creeping in before he could stop it.

That’s actually quite the perfect set-up to try and tell Remus, isn’t it?

Maybe even the best opportunity he was going to get.

Sirius sat up straight so suddenly that James flinched.

James blinked. “Jesus, mate. You good?”

Sirius turned to him, eyes slightly wild.

“A party,” he repeated.

James frowned. “Uh. Yeah?”

Sirius gripped James' arm. “James. A party.”

James gave him a wary look. “Mate, are you having a stroke?”

Sirius ignored him, mind already racing a mile a minute. A party meant opportunities. A party meant Remus in a good mood, loosened up, maybe even tipsy. A party meant casual intimacy that wouldn’t feel out of place—a hand on his back, a touch at his wrist, a lean-in too close to be mistaken for friendly.

A party meant the perfect moment to do something.

James was still looking at him weirdly. “Okay. Clearly, this means something to you, but I have no bloody idea what.”

Sirius grinned. He could feel it now—the stirrings of a plan, something half-formed but tangible, a goal.

He was going to tell Remus.

Maybe not in words—not right away. Maybe not with some dramatic confession or grand gesture. But he would make him see it. Feel it.

He’d let his actions speak for him.

And he’d do it at that fucking party.

Sirius let go of James’ arm, sitting back, suddenly feeling ten times lighter.

James raised an eyebrow. “You figured something out, didn’t you?”

Sirius just smirked. “You’ll see.”

James groaned. “Merlin, I hate when you get cryptic.”

Sirius barely heard him.

Because for the first time in days, he wasn’t drowning in uncertainty.

He had a plan.

And Sirius Black, above all else, thrived on a good plan.

BARTY

The field was too quiet.

The sky was darkening now, streaks of orange and pink bleeding into the horizon, and the distant chatter of students heading home had faded into background noise. The floodlights hummed softly above the empty bleachers, bathing the field in a cold glow.

Barty stood stiffly, arms crossed, jaw set, waiting.

He shouldn’t have agreed to this.

But of course Evan had cornered him when he least expected it, running his mouth until Barty had snapped and told him to meet him here. Somewhere private. Somewhere Evan wouldn’t have an audience for his endless fucking questions.

He exhaled sharply, staring down at the grass, willing his pulse to slow. He was fine. He was always fine. If he could just make this quick, shut Evan up, and leave, then—

Footsteps.

Barty tensed.

Then Evan was there, stopping a few feet away, hands in his pockets. His gaze wasn’t teasing, not yet. Just something careful, something too soft.

Somehow, Barty found that he hated that even more.

“Thought you’d run,” Evan mused.

Barty scoffed, folding his arms tighter. “Yeah, well. I wanted to get this over with.”

Evan hummed, studying him, his head tilting just slightly. “Right.” The boy shifted beside him, shoulders loose in a way that made Barty want to break something. He wasn’t supposed to look this at ease when Barty’s pulse was already fucking pounding.

The silence stretched.

Until Barty—tired, frayed, running out of patience—was the one to break it.

“Well?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Evan blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Barty scoffed. “You wanted to have a conversation,” he snapped. “There, you have it.” He spread his hands wide. “Talk.”

Evan studied him for a second, then exhaled slowly.

“I’m not trying to trap you,” he said, voice softer than it should have been.

There it was again. The calmness that only made Barty’s irritation spike.

“Well, it sure as hell felt like it earlier.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Barty rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension winding through his chest. “Did you talk to anyone about it?”

Evan frowned. “About what?”

Barty’s eyes snapped to his, a flash of irritation. “You know about what.”

Evan held his gaze. Then, shaking his head, he answered, “No, obviously.”

Barty exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.

“I wanted to… figure it out first,” Evan added carefully. “With you.”

Barty scoffed, shaking his head. “Well, there’s nothing to figure out,” he said flatly. “So keep your mouth shut and forget about that, okay?”

Evan exhaled, slow and measured, like he was choosing his words carefully. Like he wasn’t letting Barty get to him.

“It made me make sense of it, you know?” he said.

Barty froze.

“Why I acted like that with you. Why we were like that,” Evan continued, voice too gentle, too fucking easy. “The tension.”

No.

Barty didn’t want to hear this.

And then—

“As soon as I kiss—”

“Stop.”

Evan didn’t.

“It really did,” he continued, a little firmer now. “And I wouldn’t push if I didn’t think it made some sense for you too.”

Barty’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “It doesn’t.”

Evan’s gaze flickered downward—a quick scan of the obvious tension in Barty’s body, the way his breathing had gone shallow. Barty saw the moment he clocked it. And if he still had any doubts about his poor performance, the boy’s next words were enough confirmation.

“You know,” Evan murmured, voice edged with something teasing now, something smug. “If you wanna be convincing, you might wanna try not to moan next time someone kisses you.”

Barty’s entire body locked up like a snapped wire, like someone had suddenly yanked the floor out from under him.

Evan raised his eyebrows, lips twitching slightly. “Kinda sends mixed signals, don’t you think?”

His pulse slammed against his throat, something tight and furious curling in his chest.

“You’re such a prick,” Barty snapped. His voice came out rough, uneven. Too affected.

Evan barely reacted, just tilted his head, smirking slightly.

“And you’re a coward,” he replied smoothly. Then, with a mocking shrug, “But you know. Semantics.”

That was it.

That was the moment something inside Barty snapped.

The thing was—Barty didn’t have a wide range of emotions. They had never come in neat, separate boxes, never arrived with any sense of order. They were tangled, messy, violent. Every emotion he had ever known had always been shaped by anger—an ominous shadow lurking at the edges, waiting to sink its claws in. It was the only thing he understood, the only thing he knew how to handle.

Lust, as it turned out, was no exception.

It burned through him, sharp and consuming, indistinguishable from fury.

He surged forward before he could think—before he could talk himself out of it, before he could stop the white-hot frustration crawling under his skin.

His hands curled into Evan’s collar, yanking him in, and then—

He kissed him.

Hard. Fast. Too much like he was trying to prove something.

It wasn’t about wanting him. It wasn’t about desire. There was nothing tender about it, nothing passionate, nothing that even remotely resembled longing. It was sharp, calculated—a punishment more than anything else. A means to an end.

It barely lasted a second too. Before Evan could react—before he could push or pull or kiss back—Barty yanked himself away, shoving him backward with enough force that Evan stumbled. Like he was nothing more than an object in his way. Like he was something to be discarded.

His breath was sharp, uneven, but his face was cold, unreadable. He didn’t let himself feel anything—not the ghost of warmth on his lips, not the sting in his chest, not the way his hands trembled with the weight of something he refused to name.

For a split second, Evan went completely still. But before he could react, before he could push or pull or kiss back, Barty was already ripping himself away.

“There.” His voice came out detached, almost bored. Hollow. “Nothing.” He tilted his head, surveying Evan like he was something insignificant, something barely worth his time. “Is that enough for you now?”

Evan just stood there, staring. His expression flickered—hurt, then something else, something darker. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes searching Barty’s face like he was still trying to understand what the hell just happened.

Then, finally, he let out a breathless laugh. Except it wasn’t really a laugh—it was something hollow, something laced with disbelief.

He shook his head. “Got you,” he muttered, voice low, razor-edged. “Loud and clear.”

And then he turned on his heel and left, not sparing Barty another glance.

Barty stood there, locked in place, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Good.

Let him leave.

Let him stay gone.

Let this be the end of it.

And yet—

Barty swallowed hard, exhaling through his nose. He forced himself to move, to turn away, to walk in the opposite direction like none of it mattered.

Like he hadn’t just torn something open inside himself.

Trying—and failing—to tell himself he’d won.

EVAN

Peter’s room was dimly lit, the glow from the TV screen casting a bluish hue across the space. The familiar sounds of button-mashing and digital explosions filled the air, the rapid click-click-click of controllers in their hands almost drowning out Evan’s thoughts.

Almost.

He could do this. He could play video games, banter, hang out like nothing was gnawing at the edges of his mind. Like Barty Crouch hadn’t completely unraveled him the night before.

Like he wasn’t still furious about it.

Because he had been so sure.

When Evan kissed Barty, it had clicked. It made sense in a way that so few things did. He knew there’d be resistance. Knew Barty would fight it, would fight him—but he’d expected something real. Not this.

Not a kiss that was nothing.

Not the way Barty had looked at him after—expression blank, voice flat, shutting it down like it had never happened.

Evan gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the game. The match on screen was moving too fast, and he was playing like shit, missing easy shots, reacting half a second too late. But Peter didn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own little world, muttering about combos and strategies under his breath.

He truly thought he was doing a good enough job pretending he was fine. But then, Peter suddenly paused the game. Evan blinked at the frozen screen, then at his friend, who was now staring at him with a deeply concerned expression.

“Alright,” Peter said, setting the controller down. “What’s going on?”

Evan shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Peter frowned. “You’re lying.”

Evan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “M’ just tired.”

Peter hesitated, studying him, before shifting on the bed. “Are you pissed at me?”

Evan blinked. “What?”

Peter licked his lips, fidgeting. “I don’t know, man. I feel like—I don’t know, maybe I did something?” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking guilty. “Like, I get it. I haven’t been the best friend lately. I’ve just been so lost in… Mary. This whole relationship thing.”

Evan sighed, already shaking his head, but Peter kept going.

“I’ve never had a girlfriend, you know that,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “And it still feels surreal that a girl like her would want me.” He gave a weak chuckle, eyes flicking away. “Guess I’m just scared to mess it up.”

Evan’s chest pinched.

Peter looked down at his hands. “But it’s no excuse to ignore my mates, especially you.”

That was enough to snap Evan out of his own head.

“Peter,” he interrupted, sitting up. “No. No, you’re good.”

Peter gave him a skeptical look, but Evan shook his head. “Yeah, you haven’t been around as much, but I don’t hold it against you. It’s… it’s life, man.” He exhaled, rubbing at his jaw. “And honestly? I’ve been too focused on my own shit, too.”

He hadn’t planned on telling him. Nor anyone, for that matter. He hadn’t lied to Barty when he said he had kept it for himself.

But the thing about Peter was that he had patience. He didn’t push, didn’t prod—just waited, quiet and steady, until Evan felt like he could say it.

And maybe that was the problem. Maybe if Peter had been nosy about it, demanding details, Evan could’ve shut it down. But instead, Peter just let the silence sit, offering nothing but the occasional glance, a silent reminder that he was there.

And suddenly, keeping it to himself felt fucking exhausting.

So, before he could overthink it, Evan exhaled sharply and blurted out, “I like someone.”

Peter blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

Evan rubbed a hand over his face, already regretting it.

Peter grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “That’s cool, man.”

Evan let out a short, bitter laugh.

Peter’s smile faltered. “Or… not?” He tilted his head. “It’s not cool?”

He groaned, running both hands through his hair. “It’s a nightmare, actually.”

Peter frowned, concern settling into his features, but he didn’t say anything—just let Evan get it out.

Evan exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ve had all these… feelings, and when I finally made sense of them, I made a move. I kissed…” He hesitated, words catching in his throat, but he pushed through. “I kissed them.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed quiet, listening.

“And I was so sure that there was something,” Evan continued, his voice quickening, frustration bubbling up. “Like, we had a moment, you know? It wasn’t just in my head. But fast forward, and suddenly, he’s telling me it’s nothing. That he doesn’t give two shits about it.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, finally—

Peter shifted. “He, uh?”

Evan’s stomach dropped.

For fuck’s sake.

“So much for avoiding details,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Peter immediately lifted his hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s alright, man. You do you.” He offered a lopsided smile, something warm and genuine. “I just… didn’t know you were into blokes.”

Evan let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Well. Neither did I.”

Peter hummed. “Huh.” He leaned back slightly. “Guess sometimes it just takes one person, yeah?”

Evan stared at him for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah.”

It was the truth.

Because, before Barty, he had never really thought about it. Had never even considered it. But the boy had come along, with his sharp scowls and his infuriating attitude and his stupidly intense presence, and suddenly, everything had shifted.

Evan exhaled, shaking his head. “But he’s being a brat about it.”

Peter snorted. “That much is obvious.”

“He won’t even talk about it,” Evan went on, feeling himself get worked up again. “I mean, I knew it’d be difficult, I knew he’d—I don’t know—fight it, but this? Kissing me just to prove a point and then look me in the eye and saying it’s nothing? Who the fuck does that?”

’’Wait, I thought you kissed him?’’

’’I did.’’

’’And he kissed you back?’’

’’No, this was a different kiss.’’ He shook his head. ’’Don’t think I’d even call it that to be honest. He just…did it. For the sake of it. To prove me wrong.’’

’’That makes no sense.’’

’’Precisely.’’

“So he’s a dumbass.”

Evan scoffed. “Yeah.”

“And you’re mad.”

“Yeah.”

Peter tilted his head, considering. “You ever think maybe he’s just confused?”

Evan froze.

Because, yeah.

Of course, he’d thought about it. Had wondered, had dissected every little moment, every flicker of hesitation in Barty’s eyes, every time his body language contradicted his words.

But at the same time…

“He doesn’t get to treat me like that,” Evan muttered, voice quieter now. “He doesn’t get to act like it never happened. Like I don’t matter.”

Peter’s expression softened. “You’re right. He doesn’t.”

Evan exhaled, shoulders slumping.

Peter leaned forward. “But,” he added, “if you really think there’s something there, then you gotta give it time.”

Evan frowned, looking at him.

Peter shrugged. “I mean, think about it. If this is fucking you up, imagine what it’s doing to him.”

Evan hesitated. He didn’t want to sympathize with Barty right now. He wanted to be angry.

Peter smirked, nudging him. “What? Hate that I made a good point?”

Evan groaned. “Shut up.”

Peter laughed. “Nah, I’m serious, though. You’re pissed, and you should be, but maybe the guy’s just as pissed. At himself.”

Evan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “And what am I supposed to do? Just… wait?”

Peter grinned. “Nah, mate. You live your best life.”

Evan raised an eyebrow.

Peter leaned back against the couch, tapping the edge of his controller against his knee as he elaborated. “Give him space, yeah? Let him figure his shit out. But in the meantime?” He gestured vaguely, like the solution was obvious. “You just do you. Let him see what he’s missing.”

Evan blinked, thrown. “So… I should ignore him?”

Peter shook his head. “Nah. Worse.” He leveled Evan with a knowing look. “You treat him normally.”

Evan frowned. “What?”

“Like small-talk level friendly. Like he’s just some guy you happen to interact with.” Peter shrugged. “A colleague.”

Evan made a face. “That’s stupid.”

Peter smirked. “No, it’s smart. Think about it.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ignoring him? That’s still attention. It’s still a reaction. People like him—people who thrive on tension? They notice that. And they feed off it. But if you act like nothing happened, if you act like he’s just another person in your orbit?” Peter spread his hands. “You starve him.”

Evan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He hated how much sense it made.

Peter watched him, grinning. “Sucks, doesn’t it? Knowing I’m right.”

Evan didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Because suddenly, it clicked.

Barty had spent all this time trying to shove him into a box, trying to control what this thing between them was, trying to dictate the terms of it. But if Evan played it like it didn’t matter—like it wasn’t some big, looming weight hanging over them—

It was bound to mess with him. Perhaps even agonizingly so. Plus, he didn’t have much to lose anyway, did he? 

A slow, small yet knowing smile crept onto his face.

Peter’s grin widened, triumphant. “There he is.”

Evan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn, Peter. Since when did you become such a mastermind?”

Peter smirked, leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t just casually given the most calculated advice Evan had ever heard. He stretched his arms behind his head, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“Girlfriend effect, mate,” he said easily. “Turns out, when a girl like Mary Macdonald decides you’re worth her time, you start thinking a little faster.”

Evan snorted. “Yeah, or you’ve just been holding out on me this whole time.”

Peter grinned. “Nah. Just learning from the best.”

Evan rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips. Maybe Peter was right. Maybe he just needed to let Barty come to him for once.

And if he enjoyed watching him squirm in the meantime?

Well. That was just a bonus.

Chapter Text

BARTY

Everything was fine.
Truly, unremarkably fine. For once, Barty could say that without a trace of sarcasm. No cold stares across crowded rooms. No biting remarks, no breathless tension hanging in the air like fog. Just school, just teammates, just days moving forward the way they were meant to.

Normal.

Evan hadn’t made it weird. That, in itself, was disorienting.

Barty had expected coldness, at the very least. Something sharp and dismissive. A return to the way things used to be — before the kiss, before whatever had been building between them finally snapped and spilled out into the open. They’d been toeing that line for so long that he assumed stepping over it would ruin everything.

But Evan? Evan had responded by doing… nothing.

Not cruel silence. Not forced civility. Just quiet, unbothered neutrality.

There was the moment in the hallway that morning — Evan walking past him without slowing down, offering only a brief “Hey,” as flat and casual as if Barty were any other classmate. Not a flicker of tension. No weight behind it.

Later, at lunch, Barty had been at the back of the queue when Evan slipped past him with a quick, “Sorry, just grabbing a fork.” That was it. No pointed smirk, no double meaning, no bait.

Even training — paired together for drills, something that used to come laced with its own brand of heat and competition — had passed without incident. Evan said what needed to be said, gave a few brief directions, and walked off the second they were done, like it meant nothing.

Like Barty meant nothing.

Which, rationally, was a relief. It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? No tension meant no questions. No lingering looks meant no fallout. He didn’t have to talk about it, didn’t have to explain anything — not even to himself.

And yet.

His body hadn’t caught up to the memo. His fingers still curled involuntarily at the memory of it. His stomach tightened every time he saw Evan walk into a room. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter, that it hadn’t mattered — but apparently his nerves disagreed.

He was glad Evan was pretending. That was what this was, right? A performance. A mutual agreement to pretend nothing had happened.

Good.

Better.

Only… he'd expected something else. Some resistance. A scuffle. A familiar kind of hostility. At least that would’ve made sense.

This quiet, impersonal version of Evan Rosier — so polite, so detached — it didn’t fit. Barty didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t know what to do with the version of himself that kept reacting to it.

But it didn’t matter.

He was focused. He had football. School. The things that actually counted. Not this mess of static looping in his head. Not Evan. Not a stupid, meaningless—

“Earth to Barty?”

He blinked, snapped out of it. Regulus was watching him expectantly from across the table.

“Yeah,” Barty muttered, clearing his throat. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Regulus looked faintly uneasy, but didn’t press. “You’re still coming to mine after class, right?”

Barty nodded, a beat too quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Regulus watched him a second longer, something unreadable passing behind his eyes— but then he just shrugged and turned his attention back to his plate.

Business as usual.

Perfectly fine.

---

Regulus’ room was quiet except for the occasional sound of Barty flipping a page or the soft tap of a pen against the tabletop. They were meant to be studying, or at least pretending to, but both had clearly checked out twenty minutes ago. Barty was skimming through his notes without really reading them. Regulus, seated opposite him, had been staring at the same corner of the ceiling for so long it was beginning to feel like a deliberate act of protest.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. But there was something in the air—an undercurrent that hadn’t been there earlier.

Then Regulus shifted. Cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, like the word itself took effort. “You’ve… kissed people, right?”

Barty looked up slowly, frowning. “What?”

Regulus didn’t meet his gaze. His tone was flat, a shade too casual to be sincere. “Just asking.”

Barty stared at him. “Why?”

Regulus shrugged, still staring at the corner of the ceiling like it had wronged him. “I don’t know. Just—thinking about it.”

Barty snorted. “Thinking about… kissing?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “It’s weird.”

Barty raised a brow. “You’re weird.”

Regulus didn’t argue. He just tapped his pen once, twice, against the edge of the table.

Barty set his notebook aside. Watched him carefully now. “You’re hiding something.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Regulus hesitated. Then, in the driest, most reluctant tone possible, he muttered, “Fine. I might like someone.”

It sounded like it physically hurt him to say it. He still wasn’t looking at Barty.

“Oh.” Barty blinked. “Cool.”

Regulus offered no further details.

“So… who?” Barty pressed, only mildly curious, mostly out of habit.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I’m not telling you. You’ll mock me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Barty said — far too quickly to be convincing.

Regulus gave him a pointed look. “Exactly.”

Barty grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Is it Pandora?”

Regulus gave a sharp, incredulous sound — something between a scoff and a cough. “God, no.”

Barty frowned. “Not that ridiculous. She’s great.”

“She’s also a girl,” Regulus said flatly. “And basically a sister.”

The silence that followed stretched thin. Barty didn’t respond right away, but his expression shifted slightly—something subtle, a flicker of thought behind his eyes.

Regulus noticed.

He turned to look at him fully, cautious now. “Is that… a problem for you?”

“What?” Barty blinked. “No. Of course not.”

Regulus watched him, head tilted. “Because if it is, I’d rather not pretend otherwise.”

Barty rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not.” Then, with a sigh, “I was just surprised. That’s all.”

Regulus arched a brow. “Surprised that I like boys?”

“No. Just—surprised you like anyone. Period.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “You’ve always struck me as the old-loner type. Never-married. Dies surrounded by cats and rare books.”

“Like a gay Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Barty gave a short laugh. “Exactly.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement. “You know, that’s rich coming from you.”

“Touché,” Barty muttered, cracking his knuckles, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders.

There was a moment of quiet again, easier this time.

Then Barty tilted his head. “So… you like a guy. What’s the deal?”

Regulus exhaled like someone had asked him to donate a kidney. “We’re kind of seeing each other.”

Barty blinked. “Since when?”

“Not long.”

“And?”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. His fingers brushed the edge of a dog-eared notebook, fiddling with it like it might give him the words he needed. “It’s good,” he said eventually, quietly. “It’s… nice. We’re taking it slow.”

Barty gave him a wary look. “And something went wrong?”

Regulus made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. “We went on another date a few days ago. It was fine. Great, even. But then he—he tried to kiss me.”

Barty raised a brow.

“I panicked,” Regulus muttered, rubbing his temple. “Turned my face. He got my cheek. It was awful.”

“That's...”

“Mortifying.”

Barty huffed out a small laugh, not unkind. “Why’d you panic?”

Regulus shrugged helplessly. “I’ve never kissed anyone. Ever. I thought I could just… fake my way through it. How hard can it be, right? A mouth is a mouth.”

Barty made a face. “How romantic.”

Regulus ignored him. “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself next time. Which there might not be, considering how I absolutely butchered the moment.”

He said it lightly, but there was a thread of genuine anxiety beneath the words.

Barty studied him, then raised an eyebrow. “So what, you want advice now?”

Regulus didn’t look at him. “I mean… maybe.”

“On kissing?”

Regulus flushed slightly but kept his expression neutral. “Not like, technique or anything. Just—what it’s like. Or whatever.”

Barty scoffed under his breath, leaning back slightly. “Yeah, well. It’s not like I’ve ever kissed a guy either.”

Way to seem suspicious. Great.

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. “Never said you had.”

A small silence settled between them, not quite tense but certainly not comfortable. Barty stared at a smudge on the wall just past Regulus’ head, jaw set.

Regulus exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming quieter now. “Truth is…I’m not used to being so hopeless. I’m not used to not knowing how to do things.”

It caught Barty off-guard. Not the honesty — Regulus could be painfully blunt — but the softness of it.

And that was the moment the thought wormed its way into Barty’s brain. A reckless and stupid one, but once it was there, it latched on like a parasite.

If he kissed Regulus — properly kissed him — and felt nothing, it would prove everything.

That maybe the Evan thing wasn’t about attraction. That the other night had been a fluke.  Just a fluke. Some stupid byproduct of tension or adrenaline or… whatever. It would prove that it had never been about Evan, but about him. His control. His certainty about who he was.

He looked at Regulus for a beat, brow furrowed. The idea settled heavier in his chest the longer he held onto it.

“Alright,” Barty said, carefully. “What if you just got it over with.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“You want to get your first kiss out of the way. You’re nervous it’ll be awful. So get it over with.”

Regulus stared at him, confused. “Get what over with?”

Barty gestured vaguely between them, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This. Practice.”

Regulus recoiled slightly. “You’re joking.”

Barty shrugged, feigning indifference. “Suit yourself.”

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Look,” Barty said, sharper now, needing to push past how mortifying this already felt. “You said you didn’t want to ruin it with him. So don’t. Ruin it with me instead. It’s not that deep.”

Regulus gaped at him. “That is—by far—the worst pitch I’ve ever heard.”

Barty rolled his eyes. “Fine. Forget it. Stay awkward and die a virgin. What do you want me to say?”

Regulus threw him a glare. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you’re the one asking me what kissing is like.”

Regulus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He muttered something like “God, this is such a bad idea.”

“Obviously.”

A long pause.

Regulus still didn’t move.

But then—slowly, grudgingly—he shifted closer to him. Not by much. Just enough to prove he hadn’t ruled it out entirely.

“I swear to god,” he muttered, “if you say a word of this to anyone—”

“I’ll take it to my grave.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “No smirking. No commentary. No weird noises.”

Barty stared. “Do I look like someone who makes weird noises?”

Regulus gave him a look. Barty rolled his eyes again.

And then—silence.

Neither of them moved. Barty cleared this throat, heart hammering too loud in his ears, wondering briefly if this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

(Probably. Easily top five.)

Eventually, he leaned forward, cautious, almost mechanical. Like he was checking a box. Regulus stilled, but didn’t pull away. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was bracing for a punch. His whole body went rigid.

Their lips met—briefly, tentatively.

It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t romantic.

It was two emotionally repressed boys gently pressing their mouths together in the name of research.

Regulus pulled back first, blinking a few times like he was recalibrating his sense of gravity. “Huh.”

Barty wiped his hand down his face. “Well. There you go. First kiss with a guy, and you’re still alive.”

Regulus tilted his head, thoughtful. “Yeah. I guess it’s not that complicated.”

Barty nodded. “You’ll be fine. With him.”

Regulus glanced away, but he was smiling faintly. “Thanks.”

A beat.

Then—

“But so we’re clear,” Regulus said, voice bone-dry, “this never happened.”

Barty nodded so fast his neck cracked. “Never. Not a word.”

Their eyes met as they both broke into awkward smiles.

And that was that.

Regulus muttered something under his breath—something about trauma and catastrophic decision-making—before collapsing back onto the couch with the theatrical defeat of someone who had just lived through great personal sacrifice. His arms folded tightly across his chest, face tipped toward the ceiling like he was trying to will the memory from existence.

Meanwhile, Barty—

Barty sat very still.

He told himself it meant nothing.

Because he hadn’t felt anything. No rush, no pull, no sudden heat in his chest. His stomach hadn’t twisted. His breath hadn’t caught. His skin hadn’t burned.

It had been a kiss. A controlled variable. A neutral test.

And the result?

Nothing.

Which meant he was fine. It meant he didn’t like boys. It meant he didn’t like Evan.

He repeated it like a fact. Like a prayer, even.

He didn’t like Evan.

He didn’t.

EVAN

Evan slammed his locker shut, the metal door clanging louder than necessary, echoing down the half-empty corridor. He threw his bag over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall when the familiar cadence of footsteps fell into rhythm behind him.

“Rosier,” came Barty’s voice—sharp, impatient and, yes, sending shivers down his back despite himself.

But Evan didn’t stop. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge him, expression unreadable. “Crouch.”

Barty caught up quickly, falling into step beside him. His posture was stiff, like the effort of being there physically was already pushing his limits.

“You need to work on your passing drills,” he said, voice tight. “They were shit yesterday.”

Evan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was amused but too polite to show it fully. “Noted. Thanks for the feedback.”

Barty blinked, thrown for half a second. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Evan replied evenly. “And I appreciate the constructive criticism.”

There wasn’t a trace of mockery in his tone—just smooth, polite disinterest. That only seemed to irritate the boy more.

Bless you Peter, you evil genius.

“Don’t be a smartass,” he snapped.

“I’m not,” Evan said, still maddeningly calm. “Really. Thanks for the advice.”

The hallway around them blurred into background noise—open lockers, conversations at a distance. But between the two of them, the air was sharp enough to cut. Barty looked like he was trying to hold something in, and failing. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched. Evan could feel the way he wanted to provoke something—anything—out of him. A snap. A crack. A flash of something they both could work with.

Try again, prick.

“You also keep drifting left when you’re supposed to stay central,” Barty muttered, clearly grasping for another jab. “It’s gonna screw us over next game if you don’t fix it.”

Evan nodded like he’d just been handed a grocery list. “Got it. Stay central. Thank you, coach.”

That did it.

Barty stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway, forcing Evan to halt as well. His expression was wild with frustration, like he’d been cornered into something he didn’t understand.

“Why are you acting weird?” he demanded, voice raised just enough to echo.

Evan looked at him, calm as ever, tilting his head like he was genuinely puzzled by the question. “Weird?”

“You know what I mean.” Barty’s tone was fraying now, brittle and defensive. “You’re—” He gestured vaguely, his hand slicing through the air like the right words were just out of reach. “You’re being weird.”

Evan adjusted the strap of his bag with infuriating composure. “I don’t think so.”

Barty stared at him like he was waiting for a confession, a fight, anything. The silence stretched. Then Evan said, tone soft but steady:

“But if I was… would there be a reason for that?” He held his gaze. “Something to do with you, maybe?”

Barty’s expression froze. His mouth opened like he had something to say—then closed again, jaw working but no words coming out. His hands balled into fists at his sides. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He made a sound—half scoff, half something else—and then turned abruptly, walking off like the hallway had personally offended him.

“Great chat,” Evan called lightly after him, not bothering to raise his voice.

Barty didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. Just stalked away like the ground might give way if he didn’t keep moving.

Evan watched him go for a second, then let out a quiet exhale, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

---

Peter unwrapped his sandwich like he was starving, immediately taking an enormous bite. Crumbs scattered across the cafeteria table as he chewed with abandon. Across from him, Evan sat with a tray of mostly untouched food, absentmindedly pushing a few fries around his plate. There was a faint, self-satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his mouth — not smug enough to be overt, but definitely noticeable.

Peter paused mid-bite, squinting at him. “Alright,” he said, voice thick with suspicion. “What’s with the face?”

Evan blinked, feigning innocence. “What face?”

“That face,” Peter said, pointing a slightly soggy fry in his direction. “You look like you just got away with murder.”

Evan let out a soft laugh under his breath, finally tossing a fry into his mouth. “No murder,” he said lightly. “Just… progress.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Progress?”

Evan leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms with casual exaggeration. “Let’s just say… I think our plan might be working.”

Immediately, Peter perked up, sandwich forgotten. “You mean with the guy?”

Evan gave a slow nod, dragging it out with the satisfaction of someone who had waited days for this small triumph. “Yep.”

Peter leaned in over the table, elbows resting against the edge. “Details. I want the whole play-by-play.”

Evan’s smirk deepened. “Nothing dramatic. Just saw him in the hallway. He tried to rile me up. You know, classic bullshit.”

Peter snorted. “Right, right.”

“Yeah, except this time,” Evan said, popping another fry into his mouth with theatrical nonchalance, “I didn’t take the bait. Played it cool. Treated him like he was just anyone.”

Peter clapped once, grinning wide. “Beautiful. Small-talk level friendly. Just like we said.”

“Exactly,” Evan echoed, sitting back with a pleased look. “And you should’ve seen his face. He was two seconds away from spontaneous combustion.”

Peter was laughing now — a real, full-body laugh that made him nearly choke. “You’re a menace.”

Evan shrugged modestly, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. For the first time in days, he actually felt light. Not over it, not entirely okay — but like maybe he had a bit of the power back.

And then—

“Oi, lovebirds,” a familiar voice chimed behind them.

Pandora plopped down into the seat next to Peter, tray in hand, her hair windblown from whatever chaos she’d just walked through. She leaned over the table with a glint in her eye.

Peter didn’t even look at her. “Very original,” he muttered.

Pandora ignored him entirely. “You two free next Saturday?”

Peter glanced at Evan, who shrugged, then turned back to her. “I think so. Why?”

She wiggled her eyebrows like she was about to drop classified information. “Surprise party. At James’.”

Peter frowned. “Isn’t his birthday in July?”

“It’s not for him,” Pandora said with a dramatic eye roll. “It’s for Barty. His birthday’s next week. James is just hosting. You’re both coming. No excuses.” She pointed firmly at each of them, then leaned back, already fishing something out of her bag. “Details incoming. Keep it quiet.”

And just like that, she was off again, vanishing back into the cafeteria crowd like she’d never sat down.

Peter turned back to Evan, still grinning. “Well, well, well.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Peter nudged him with his elbow. “Sounds like the perfect setup to keep your strategy going. Think of the opportunities.”

Evan blinked, thrown for a second. “Wh—what?”

Did he figure it out just now?

The corner of Peter’s mouth lifted. “He’ll be there, won’t he? Your boy”

“Oh,” Evan said quickly. “Yes. I mean—probably.”

Peter shrugged, letting it go with a smug little grin. Evan, meanwhile, tried very hard not to think about the last party they’d both been at. The bathroom. The door. The air thick with fog and tension. The heat. The way Barty had looked at him like he wanted to throw a punch or kiss him—or maybe both.

In hindsight, it was absurd that it had taken him that long to connect the dots.

But now?

Now he was connecting every one. And he had a week to draw the rest of the picture.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d let Barty squirm a little in the meantime.

Chapter Text

PANDORA

Pandora loved putting things together.

It was, if she were being honest, her version of magic: sourcing, crafting, scheming, organizing. Piecing little fragments of people into something beautiful. Throwing a party wasn’t just throwing a party to her; it was a kind of offering. A love language in motion, if you will.

And this one? This one mattered more than most.

Because Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let people do things for him. He wasn’t soft, or obvious, or easy to read. But she saw him. Beneath the bristle and pride, she’d caught glimpses. How he loosened around Regulus when he thought no one was watching. How he tucked his sleeves just so, always in control of the small things. How his scowls softened—not vanished, just shifted—when he was around them. It was small, but it was still something.

He’d never had a party thrown for him. So, naturally, when she had learnt about his upcoming birthday, she’d decided to take matter into her own hands. Well, with some help of course.

So now, there was only one job left: to make it good. To make him feel like he didn’t need to earn it, or deserve it, or repay it. Just—bask in it.

The living room of James’ house was glowing with low lights, paper streamers, scattered balloons that Sirius had insisted were “ironic,” and a table groaning with snacks and drinks. The playlist was already loaded, Peter on DJ duty with the air of a man taking it as seriously as an Olympic sport. The football team was milling about, half of them already half-drunk and loud, and more friends were trickling in by the minute.

James had been the easiest to convince. Hosting a party? Please. He’d practically begged. The only tricky part had been making sure Barty didn’t suspect anything. In the end, they’d settled on a half-lie.

“Some kind of football meeting thing,” Regulus had suggested dryly, scrolling through his messages. “He won’t question it.”

Now, Pandora stood near the couch, nerves bubbling quietly under her ribs as the front door buzzed, helding her breath as James went to open it.

Then—

“SURPRISE!”

The room erupted in a chorus of shouting and clapping. Barty stood frozen in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression schooled into something between disbelief and visible discomfort. His eyes flicked across the room, to the crowd, the decorations, the banner Pandora had made (which read YOU’RE OLD NOW in aggressive glitter), and finally landed on her and Regulus.

He blinked once.

James, grinning like a maniac, slapped him on the back. “Alright, Crouch, don’t just stand there looking like we’ve announced your funeral. Come in. Drink something. Pretend to like people.”

Peter, without missing a beat, hit play on the speaker. The bass dropped.

Pandora threaded through the bodies and made her way to him, Regulus at her side.

The latter was already giving her a look. “Told you he’d hate it.”

“I don’t,” Barty said stiffly. “It’s just—”

“A lot,” Pandora finished for him, pouting dramatically. “I know. But I wanted you to feel appreciated. I mean, come on, Barty, look around—everyone’s here.”

He glanced around again. Carefully. Like the room might bite.

“I appreciate the gesture,” he said, eventually. Quietly. His voice was flatter than usual, but she caught the slight shift in his posture. A small tilt toward them.

“People like you, you know,” she said brightly.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Now, let’s not lie.”

Pandora swatted his arm. “Some people. Like. Him.”

“Name one,” Regulus deadpanned.

“Me!” she said, grinning.

Barty gave the smallest huff of air. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he muttered, eyes darting toward the kitchen, “since I’m already here… might as well take advantage of the place.”

She nudged him. “That’s the spirit.”

Regulus sighed dramatically. “God, the night is going to be so long.”

As the music swelled, and the room folded back into laughter and chatter and dancing bodies, Pandora let herself rejoice in her success.

“You’ve done it again,” Xenophilius muttered, sliding next to her with two cups in hands. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I know!”

This earned her a laugh as he leaned in to plant a kiss on her lips.

Yes. Tonight was going to be good. Why wouldn’t it be?

EVAN

“I’m actually begging you, Pete.”

“I’m not taking requests.”

“You literally put three Mamma Mia songs in a row because Mary asked for it.”

“Yeah. I love her. She’s so cool.”

“Aw, babe!” Mary beamed, leaning into him dramatically.

“Oh my God,” Remus groaned, “isn’t anything sacred?”

“Don’t be bitter, Lupin,” she shot back, grinning. “You just need to date a DJ.”

“Pete isn’t a DJ!”

“Now that’s just mean,” Peter said, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked.

“Evan, some help here?” Remus turned in exasperation, only to find Evan lounging against the doorframe with a drink, entirely too amused.

“Don’t you dare distract him, Moony,” Peter said, all smug looking. “My boy is on a mission tonight.”

Evan snorted mid-sip, barely catching himself from choking as the group’s chaos unfolded like a play they’d all performed before. The Peter vs. Remus music battle was a staple at every party, but tonight—with Mary cheerfully throwing herself into the fray—Remus didn’t stand a chance.

Still, it was good-natured. Comforting. The kind of messy noise that made a party feel like more than just bodies in a room.

“Drop it, man. You’re not winning this one,” Evan said, stepping forward to tug Remus gently by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink before you spiral about ABBA again.”

Remus grumbled something unintelligible but allowed himself to be led toward the kitchen, trailing a hand through his hair in mock defeat.

“He can’t be that in love, can he?” he muttered once they were out of earshot, grabbing a cup and rummaging through the drinks.

Evan leaned against the counter, casual. “You have no idea. He’s, like, head-over-heels. It’s genuinely a little unsettling.”

Remus poured himself a drink with a dramatic sigh. “Right. Well, at least when they’re off snogging somewhere, I get the aux back.”

Evan smirked. “See? Silver linings.”

There was a pause as Remus leaned against the counter, studying Evan a little more closely.

“Hey—what was that about, by the way?”

Evan blinked. “Hm?”

“You. Back there. ‘On a mission tonight’?”

“Oh.” Evan hesitated, heat rising at the back of his neck. “Pete’s just taking the piss, as usual.”

“Yeah, I figured. But what’s the mission?”

Evan hesitated again, weighing his words like stones in his mouth. “S’just…” He clicked his tongue, trying not to sound too earnest. “I’m trying to get someone’s attention. By… not giving them any. If that makes any sense?”

A beat.

Remus raised a brow. “What are we, fourteen?”

Ouch, but fair.

Evan raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I’m just picking the weapon that fits the battlefield.”

“A war metaphor for love,” Remus said dryly. “Groundbreaking.”

“It’s not love,” Evan muttered too quickly.

“Sure. So, your target is immature, I gather.”

Worse than a child throwing a rage tantrum.

“Precisely.”

Remus leaned in slightly. “Well, I’m sure you and Sirius will work it out.”

Evan blinked, caught off-guard by the joke, then laughed, loud and genuine. “Not that immature.”

Remus gave him a look, then chuckled. “Fair enough. He is a lost cause though, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said, swirling his drink. “Maybe that’s part of the charm.”

“Yeah.” Remus sighed. “It is.”

And then, like a cue from the universe itself—

“Moony!” Sirius’ voice rang out across the kitchen as he skidded to a stop in the doorway, wide-eyed and already halfway to tipsy. “God, I’ve been looking for you.”

He turned with a grin. “Hi, Evan.”

“Pads.”

Sirius clapped a hand on Remus’ arm, turning to Evan like he’d just remembered he existed. “Hey, do you mind? I need to talk to Remus. Privately. Kind of urgently.”

Evan gave a slow, knowing smile. “Be my guest.” He tipped an invisible hat. “See you.”

Remus rolled his eyes, sipping again. “Good luck with your war.”

Evan raised his glass as he stepped past them, still grinning. “All’s fair.”

BARTY

The living room was overstuffed, loud, and saturated with the kind of manufactured heat that only came from too many bodies and cheap alcohol. The lights were dimmed low, except for the occasional seizure of neon from the LED mixer. Someone’s playlist—which had involved a lot of Abba so far—thumped beneath the chatter, a steady beat underscoring every half-drunken dare and deliberately flirtatious question.

The furniture had been rearranged to accommodate the chaos. A battered velvet sofa had been shoved against one wall, sagging under the weight of six people tangled in a knot of limbs and laughter. Someone had dragged beanbags into the center, ringed around an empty bottle that glinted under the rotating glow of a lava lamp. A girl in a halter top was currently sitting cross-legged and flushed, trying to answer whether or not she’d ever been in love. She was failing spectacularly.

Truth or Dare had begun as a joke—until it wasn’t. Now it had the high-stakes intensity of a televised trial, complete with social casualties.

Barty didn’t bother pretending it bored him. He wasn’t quite entertained, either—just existing at a slow simmer, letting the night flow around him like smoke.

He was slouched in the corner of the sectional, elbow hooked over the backrest, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. Regulus sat beside him—close enough to register the warmth of his shoulder, but not touching. His legs were drawn up slightly, long fingers curled around his own cup, and he wore the same unbothered expression he always did in group settings: quietly detached, like he was grading everyone’s performances in his head.

“Ten pounds says this ends in someone crying,” Barty muttered, nodding toward the center of the room as the bottle spun again.

Regulus didn’t even glance over. “Terrible bet,” he said flatly. “It always ends in someone crying.”

Barty smirked, sipping his drink anyway.

“By the way,” he added, just loud enough to stir trouble, “is your… you know… here tonight?”

He could feel it before he saw it—Regulus’ entire body going painfully stiff.

“My what?”

“The one you needed kissing lessons for.”

Regulus turned to him slowly, eyes sharp as blades. “Ask me that again and I’ll make sure the cops won’t even find your body.”

Barty rolled his eyes, undeterred. “Just making conversation.”

“Yes,” Regulus snapped, clearly regretting everything. “He’s here. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Rosier, come here and play, you bastard!”

The shout cut across the room like a blade.

Barty felt his head snap before he could control it and, sure enough, there he was, Evan, making his way towards the circle with his usual shit-face grin on. He forced himself to divert his attention back to Regulus as he finally downed the rest of his drink.

“I hate parties,” he muttered.

Regulus tilted his head toward him, dry. “You’re literally at one.”

“I was lured. Under false pretenses.”

“Yeah. Football meeting.” Regulus smirked. “You’re so easy to cheat.”

“I knew Pandora was too morally sound to come up with this.”

“She’s our ethical compass,” Regulus agreed. “That being said, when she asks about your night—?”

“I’ll say I had so much fun, and I’ll thank her from the bottom of my heart.”

“Fast learner.”

The bottle spun again. Someone booed as it landed on a boy who sheepishly muttered truth. The crowd jeered in half-hearted protest. The game was clearly hitting a lull.

“Lame,” someone said flatly.

“No one ever picks dare anymore.”

“I dare you to grow a spine,” someone else called, and laughter burst across the room.

“Okay, okay,” a girl said, waving her hand in the air. “Next round. Rosier.”

Heads turned in unison.

Across the circle, Evan looked up from his drink. His lips still glistened faintly from whatever he’d just sipped. His expression didn’t shift much—but his eyes caught fire.

“Yeah?” Evan said easily.

The girl grinned. “Truth or dare?”

There was a pause.

And then, without missing a beat:

“Dare.”

It landed like a ripple across the floorboards. Surprised whistles. Raised brows. Someone clapped slowly, mock-applause. Someone grinned, and Barty already hated it.

“Alright, Rosier. I dare you—”

The air changed. Just slightly. Like a room exhaling before something happens.

“—to go kiss the hottest person in the room!”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then: chaos. Absolute, fucking, chaos.

Whoops. Cheers. Someone let out a dramatic gasp. Even the music seemed to quiet like it wanted to watch.

Evan smiled. Not a smirk, not a laugh—just that maddening, unreadable curve of his mouth. Smooth. Composed. Measured. He let his gaze wander through the crowd, eyes drifting lazily over faces like he was weighing his options as the people around were already joking about it.

And then—

He landed on Barty.

Their eyes locked.

And the world stilled.

It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just held—longer than anyone would hold a casual glance. The kind of look that wasn’t meant to be noticed but couldn’t help becoming a spotlight. There was something in Evan’s expression. Not amusement. Not cruelty. Something quieter. Something unreadable and sharp-edged—like he was trying to see what Barty would do if pushed just slightly harder.

And Barty—

Well.

His heart didn’t lurch, not exactly. But it shifted. Like something in his chest had turned over in its sleep. And he thought—

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be that stupid. Would he?

Well, in any case, Barty wasn’t about to wait to find out. He also gracefully ignored the voice that was telling him that he also—god help him—really didn’t want to watch Evan saunter over to someone else and kiss them either.

His grip tightened around the glass. He glanced at Regulus beside him, who hadn’t noticed any of it, too focused on his own brooding.

Good.

Barty leaned over, muttering under his breath, “Gonna get some air.”

Regulus just nodded, barely looking up.

And Barty was already on his feet—already walking away from the heat of the room, from the weight of the stare that might still have been following him. Although, he didn’t look back to check.

REGULUS

Regulus had been alone for a solid ten minutes when he decided he had had enough of the spectacle in front of him and decided to get a move in. Watching Evan Rosier snog Lily Evans had been interesting enough, but he was bored now. He quickly spotted Pandora, but she was currently snuggling up against her boyfriend, and he really didn’t feel like intruding. Alternatively, he could probably find Barty outside. He’d disappeared nearly twenty minutes ago and had been in one of his moods all evening. Regulus wasn’t in the right headspace to navigate that emotional minefield.

He was just starting to consider the idea of slipping away entirely—maybe finding an upstairs bathroom to hide in for twenty minutes—when his pocket buzzed.

He frowned and pulled out his phone.

James.

You look good ;)

His breath caught—ridiculous, really, the way his chest tightened like that. He glanced up instinctively, and sure enough, James was across the room, perched against the doorframe with a drink in hand and that insufferable half-smirk playing on his face.

Regulus flushed, almost dropped his phone.

Another buzz.

Wanna go somewhere more private? Feels like we should talk.

Regulus stared at the screen.

Talk.

Right. Of course. That.

He suddenly hated the word.

The last time they’d been alone, he’d made a complete fool of himself—pulling back when James had leaned in, awkwardly dodging the moment like it had been a punch thrown instead of a kiss offered. He’d meant to text after, to explain that it hadn’t been about him, that he’d just panicked, but… he hadn’t.

He’d avoided it instead. Typical.

And now James wanted to talk.

His instincts screamed no—hide, run, vanish through the nearest window. But another part of him—deeper, quieter, more reckless—said yes. Because no matter how mortified he was, no matter how much he told himself it didn’t matter—

He wanted to be alone with him.

Even if it was just to say sorry.

So, after a beat, he nodded.

Across the room, James grinned and typed one last message.

Meet me in my grandfather’s study

SIRIUS

“Pads, respectfully? You’ve been pacing in the same damn circle for fifteen minutes.”

Sirius raked a hand through his hair, eyes darting over the sea of partygoers in the hallway. “I know. There’s just—so many goddamn people here. I can’t think.”

Remus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to look too amused. “We can talk here. It’s fine.”

“No!” Sirius spun to face him, eyes wide. “Moony, this is—this is important. I can’t just do it… anywhere.”

Remus blinked. “Alright. Okay. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Sirius insisted, right as he nearly knocked into a lampshade.

“Sure,” Remus muttered. “You seem incredibly calm.”

Sirius stopped, fingers twitching slightly. “I’m sorry. I’m just—bit anxious.”

Remus exhaled, more fond than exasperated now. “Right. Well, can’t we go up to James’ room or something? I doubt he’s even using it.”

Sirius shook his head violently. “No, too risky. Knowing this lot, there’ll be people shagging on the floor or passed out in the closet.”

A beat.

Then—

“Wait!” Sirius’s entire posture changed, straightening like someone had just flipped a switch. “I know where we can go.”

Remus arched an eyebrow. “Mh?”

Sirius grabbed his arm. “His grandfather’s study. No one ever goes in there during parties. James keeps it locked, but I know where he hides the key.”

“Of course you do.”

Sirius flashed him a quick grin. “Come on. It’s perfect.”

And then he was already pulling him through the corridor, weaving between half-drunken students and thudding basslines, a man on a mission. Remus followed, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

No turning back now, Sirius thought. I’m doing it.

REGULUS

James was already inside. He’d tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and was sitting on the edge of the desk, elbows on his knees, drink long gone.

He looked up as Regulus stepped in and gave him that lopsided smile again. “Hey.”

Regulus closed the door behind him. His fingers lingered on the handle, as he still debated with himself to make a run for it. “Hey.”

A beat. Then another.

James patted the space beside him. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Regulus crossed the room and sat, but not quite next to him. A polite distance. A safe one. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah.” James looked at him for a long moment—open, unreadable. Then: “Cause I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

That caught Regulus off guard. “You’re sorry?”

“For coming on too strong last time.” James gave a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I just… I guess I read things wrong.”

Oh my god.

This was even worse than what he’d thought. James was blaming himself.

“God, no,” Regulus stared at his hands as he cleared his throat. “You didn’t.”

James blinked. “I didn’t?”

Regulus shook his head. “You didn’t read it wrong. I just… panicked.”

That quiet settled again. Less tense now. More like something holding its breath.

James shifted a little closer. “Okay. That’s fair. I get that.”

Regulus let out a shaky breath. “It wasn’t about you. It was me being… me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of James’s mouth. “Cryptic and emotionally constipated?”

Regulus huffed a laugh, eyes flicking to his. “Something like that.”

“But why? Why did you panic?”

Regulus hesitated.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared down at his knees, brow furrowed like he was sorting through something dense and delicate.

“I don’t…” He paused, mouth twisting. “I don’t like not knowing things.”

James blinked, thrown but listening.

“I mean, I’m good at reading people. Usually. I’m good at… observing, analyzing. I can predict things, I can control outcomes—if I say this, they’ll do that. If I wear this, they’ll think that. But this?” He gestured vaguely between them. “This is chaos.”

James still didn’t interrupt. He just offered him a nod, to assure him that he was listening.

“I never know what I’m doing. I always feel like I’m two seconds away from looking completely idiotic. Like I’ll say the wrong thing, or do it wrong, or worse—want it too much and it’ll show.” His voice cracked just a little. “It’s like, I keep trying to pretend I’ve got it all handled but inside I’m just… flailing.”

James’s expression shifted—softened, open in a way that made it harder to speak but somehow easier too.

“And I even asked Barty for help,” Regulus added with a weak laugh. “Which should tell you how desperate I am, if he can be of help already.”

That made James laugh a little, too—light, surprised—but it faded quickly into something gentler. He reached out, took Regulus’s hand, warm and firm, as he began to trace patterns on his knuckles.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, it’s okay, yeah? Thanks for telling me. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to do something or be something for me.” He applied a small pressure on his hand, holding it tightly. “And I’m really, really sorry if I made you feel like that.”

Regulus shook his head quickly. “No, I want to. Really. I mean it. It’s just…” He exhaled shakily. “I had never done it. Kissing someone, I mean.”

James blinked, before his mind caught up to him. “Wait. Had?”

Oh. Fuck me.

Fuck semantics.

“Nope,” Regulus muttered instantly, face flaming. “Nope. Please, don’t make me say it out loud.”

But James was already laughing. “Oh my god, is that what you meant by asking Barty for help?”

Regulus groaned and covered his face. “Okay. I’m going to kill myself now. Right here.”

He made a move to stand—to flee the room, his own dignity, his whole life—but James reached out and caught him by the waist, laughing but not cruelly, not even close. Just delighted. Kind.

“Don’t you dare,” James said, pulling him close, grounding him again.

Regulus didn’t resist.

Not this time.

James’s hand was steady at his waist, the other resting lightly just behind his shoulder. And Regulus… Regulus could feel his heart pounding like it was trying to make itself heard over everything else—over the silence in the room, over the warm weight of James’s gaze, over the messy tangle of his own thoughts.

“I’m not making fun of you, I promise.” James whispered, softly. “If anything, I’m flattered.” Regulus groaned, but the boy just kept going. “No, really. I mean, the fact that you actually went and…trained for me? That’s kind of sweet.”

“Of course, when you put it like that.”

“So, should I be worried?” James joked heartily. “Is Crouch about to steal my boy away?”

Regulus felt his heart stop. He looked up, only to be met with James staring already.

“Your—what?”

James wasn’t smirking anymore. He was just looking at him—open, patient, like he had all the time in the world. Like Regulus could take forever and it’d still be okay.

“My boy.” He shrugged. “The one I like. The one I want to spend my time with. Call it what you want, yeah.”

Regulus’s breath caught. His chest was too tight, his hands too restless—he didn’t know what to do with the way James was looking at him. Like he meant something. Like this meant something.

He felt the pull before he made the decision.

His hands found James’s shoulders—tentative, but sure enough to anchor himself—and then, heart in his throat, he leaned in and closed the distance between them.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished or practiced. It didn’t need to be.

It was soft and real and a little bit clumsy—his nose bumped into James’s cheek, and he wasn’t sure where to put his hands for a second—but it was his. He kissed James like he meant it. Like he had been dying to. Like if he thought about it too long, he might lose the nerve entirely.

And James kissed him back with just as much quiet intensity—slow and sure and grounding, like he was trying to say I’ve got you without needing the words.

When they finally broke apart, Regulus stayed close, forehead almost resting against James’s. He couldn’t quite look at him yet.

But James chuckled, soft and breathless, and said, “Not bad for an amateur.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, cheeks flushed deep pink, and didn’t answer—not with words. He leaned in again and kissed him, firmer this time, with more confidence, more intent. It was the kind of kiss that said shut up and don’t stop all at once. James made a surprised little noise against his mouth before grinning into the kiss.

SIRIUS

He was going to do it.

He was really—actually—going to do it. God, this was exhilarating.

Sirius shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he made his way up the stairs, the distant thump of bass and laughter muffled by the hallway walls. Remus walked beside him, quiet, calm, the way he always was when Sirius was absolutely losing it inside.

This was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine.

They hadn’t even been at the party that long, but Sirius had spent the first forty minutes trying not to stare. Trying not to read into every glance, every brush of Remus’s hand. But then Remus had smiled at him, soft and a little uncertain, and Sirius had thought—fuck it. He was done circling. Done choking on all the almosts and what-ifs.

They’d find a quiet room. He’d say what he needed to say. And if Remus didn’t feel the same, well. At least he’d know.

He stopped outside the door James had told him was empty. He took a breath, glanced at Remus.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, steadying himself. “Yeah, I just…”

He reached for the doorknob.

Opened it.

And everything fell apart.

Two figures jerked apart like they’d been burned—James, shirt rumpled, lips flushed, still breathless, and—Regulus.

Regulus, whose collar was fucking askew, whose hands had clearly just been holding James’s face, whose expression was frozen somewhere between mortification and terror.

Sirius stood there.

Silent.

Still.

And then: “What the fuck?”

James started to say something, but Sirius was already turning, storming back down the hallway, heat rising so fast he couldn’t breathe.

What the actual fuck. What the actual fuck.

He heard footsteps behind him—Remus, calling his name—but he didn’t stop. Not until he burst out into the cool night air, crossing the back lawn in long, furious strides.

EVAN

Evan found him outside, exactly where he’d expected: tucked away behind the garden wall, folded in on himself like a badly kept secret. The wind nipped at the back of Evan’s neck as he stepped onto the path, leaving the pulse of the party behind. Music thumped distantly through the house; a swell of laughter burst and died somewhere inside. Out here, the air felt colder, cleaner. He welcomed it.

Barty sat on the low stone wall near the back hedge, hoodie up, knees drawn in, the hood casting half his face in shadow. His fingers twitched, restless against the frayed sleeves.

Evan could practically hear Pete’s voice telling him to let it go, to follow with their plan. But that was before he had caught his eyes during that stupid truth or dare game, before he had watched him leave instantly after a look that was all too telling.

Most importantly, that was before a couple of poorly balanced vodka RedBull.

“You look like you’re mourning your own birthday,” Evan said eventually, keeping his voice light. Easy. He wasn’t trying to start shit. Well, he kind of was, but not immediately.

Barty didn’t look up. “Bit early to call it a success.”

Evan dropped onto the wall beside him, close enough to feel the tension humming off him like static. “Come on. No one’s slapped you. That’s progress.”

A breath, sharp and bitter. “Yet.”

Evan smiled faintly. “Well, I could still do it, if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

That earned him a glance, which read like exasperation.

“Very generous.”

Not in the mood to joke then.

“I’m practically a Saint, actually.”

They lapsed into a lull. Somewhere in the dark, the fairy lights flickered above them like dying stars. Barty’s shoulders remained stiff, drawn up like armor.

Then, without turning: “So you’re normal again?”

Evan tilted his head. “Define normal.”

“Acting like yourself again.”

“I didn’t know we had a baseline for that.”

“Cut the shit, Rosier.”

Ok, now he felt like starting something.

“Are you serious right now?” Evan called out, his gaze fully latching onto him now. But the boy merely huffed, as if Evan was the one being dramatic.

But he wasn’t about to let it go this time.

“God, Barty,” he added, half a bitter laugh, half a sigh. “Make up your mind. You hated it when I was all over you. Now you hate it when I’m not? Do you realized how ridiculous you are?”

“Don’t,” Barty warned.

But Evan was already turning toward him, voice dropping into something quieter. Sharper. “No, really. Tell me what the rules are. Because I’m tired of guessing. Tired of pretending I don’t notice when you look at me like that.”

“Fuck off.”

“Already tried that,” Evan muttered. “And look how pissed you got. By the way, did you stop to think about that for a second? About why it bothers you so much?”

Barty’s jaw clenched.

Evan pressed on, more furious by the minute now. “Why it made you so annoyed that I was just polite. Detached. Like any other guy.”

“Stop it.”

“Why did it feel like I owed you something?”

“I said stop.”

“I’ll tell you why—” he smirked, delighted to rile him up like that, “Because it’s harder to ignore me when I’m not trying. When you don’t get to blame me for pushing too hard.”

“Just shut up, alright!” Barty snapped, the words ripping out of him.

He stood abruptly, the sharp scrape of his shoes against stone breaking the quiet. The suddenness of it made Evan flinch—just barely, but enough to feel it in his gut.

Barty’s back was to him now, his shoulders tight beneath the fabric of his hoodie, fists buried in the sleeves. His breath came hard, uneven, visible in the cold.

Evan stayed seated.

The wall was cold beneath his palms. The night felt bigger all of a sudden, the wind slicing sharper through the garden. He watched the way Barty’s spine curved—like he was holding something in, like if he moved wrong it might all spill out.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and uneven.

And Evan realized, just then, that pushing wouldn’t work. Not with him. Not tonight. Barty wasn’t built for honesty under pressure. He’d bite before he bared anything.

So Evan exhaled—slow, careful—and let the anger slide off his shoulders. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Calmer. A shade more fragile.

“It was you, you know.” He let out, softly.

Barty turned toward him sharply. “What?”

Evan exhaled as he got up too, stepping closer to the boy. “That I wanted to kiss. Just before, at the game.”

“I—”

“It’s true. I looked up in that room full of people and I hadn’t even noticed that you were here but as soon as I did—” Evan leaned closer, low and rough now. “It was you. I wanted to kiss you.” He paused, frowning. “And I know you did too.”

He reached out, carefully, his fingers brushing along Barty’s jaw, knuckles light as air. He felt the boy stiffen, yet he didn’t pull away.

Because you want this too. I know it.

And I’m giving it to you.

Evan shifted, slow and deliberate, guiding Barty’s face to the side with a light touch — fingers under his jaw, gentle but insistent. Just enough to expose the line of his neck. He leaned in — not fully, not yet — and let his mouth hover there. A brush of breath. A whisper of heat against skin. A promise.

Barty shivered.

Evan smiled, unable to stop himself.

There it is.

“You want this as much as I do, Barty,” he murmured, letting his lips barely graze the spot just below Barty’s jaw. The kiss was soft — more suggestion than contact. “You know you do.”

Barty’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched — sharp, audible — like even the act of inhaling had become difficult.

Good.

Evan’s hand slid down, settling firmly at Barty’s waist, grounding them both. He pressed in closer, his body aligning to Barty’s with ease born of want. His mouth skimmed upward, toward the skin just beneath Barty’s ear — softer there, more sensitive — and kissed again, slower this time.

“Say it,” he breathed.

Barty didn’t.

“Ev—” His voice cracked halfway through Evan’s name. But still — he didn’t move. Didn’t push him off.

So Evan kept going.

His mouth wandered — along the curve of Barty’s ear, the edge of his jaw. Each kiss firmer than the last. He pressed his palm harder against Barty’s waist, half in an effort to pull him closer, half to steady himself.

There was a part of Evan — deep, pulsing low in his gut — that wanted to hurt him. To press bruises into his hips, to leave something behind. Rage and desire tangled so tightly together he couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. That’s what Barty did to him.

“God—” Evan groaned, breath hot against skin. “You drive me so fucking mad, Barty. I swear.”

“Huh-huh.” It came out faint — a broken exhale, barely shaped into words.

Oh, fuck.

Evan felt like he might explode. The tension in him coiled tight, muscle-deep. One of his hands slid lower now, fingers skating the curve of Barty’s hip as he pressed his thigh flush against Barty’s. His other hand moved up, tangling in fabric, in hair, he didn’t even know. He was desperate, and so was Barty, if the soft, helpless sounds he was making meant anything.

Evan kissed him again, deep at the base of his throat.

“Say it, Barty,” Evan groaned.

“Fuck.”

“Just tell me you want it.”

“I wan—"

And just when it began to tip from restraint into something else entirely—

A shout.

Then a scream — sharp, jarring, tearing through the quiet like a crack of lightning from the side of the house.

They both froze.

Evan’s mouth was still close to Barty’s skin, breath caught mid-motion. His heart jolted once, hard, as adrenaline overtook everything else. Then came the sound of footsteps — fast, stumbling — and the unmistakable slam of a door flying open. A voice followed: raised, furious, barely coherent through the rush of noise.

Evan pulled back instantly, his hand slipping from Barty’s waist as if burned. “What the—?”

More voices now. Overlapping, messy. James. Sirius. Regulus. Even without seeing them, Evan could hear the disaster in it.

Barty was already moving. He stepped back, his hoodie falling down from his head, his face going still — shuttered, unreadable, like a mask had dropped into place.

Evan rose too, slower, pulse hammering for reasons entirely different than they had been seconds ago.

The fairy lights overhead flickered — once, twice — as the back door burst open with a bang. Sirius came tearing across the lawn, all fury and motion, Remus close behind. Then Regulus. Then James. Their faces were tight, flushed, like something had already detonated between them and they were still reeling from the blast.

The air felt colder.

The moment was gone.

The spell—whatever fragile, feverish thing had wrapped around Evan and Barty—shattered with it.

Evan took a single step back. Then another.

Barty didn’t move. He just stood there, silent and tense, eyes fixed on the approaching storm, his expression locked down so tight it almost looked like indifference.

But Evan knew better.

Whatever had just been building between them—whatever might have happened if they’d had ten more seconds—was over.

For now.

Evan cleared his throat. “What the hell is going on?”

His voice cut through the noise, edged in disbelief as the group came stumbling into the garden like a damn soap opera.

Barty took one look at Regulus and straightened. “Regulus—are you alright?”

Sirius spun to face him, sharp as a blade. “Don’t ask me, ask my best friend.” He jabbed a finger at James. “Go on, James, tell everyone. What the hell’s going on, huh?”

James opened his mouth, then closed it again. His expression was caught somewhere between guilt and panic. “I—it’s not—it’s not what—”

“Oh, save it,” Sirius snapped, voice rising. “What’s going on is that James here is going around kissing my brother!”

Regulus made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Oh my god.”

Barty blinked, then looked at Regulus like he’d just realized the punchline. “Potter? Seriously? You wanted to practice for him?”

Regulus turned on him, flustered and red. “This is so not the moment, Barty—”

But Evan cut in, eyes narrowing as he echoed the word: “Practice?”

“Oh my god,” Regulus muttered again, under his breath this time.

Sirius threw his arms up. “Brilliant. Fantastic. Just everyone be in love with everyone else and leave me completely insane. That’s fine. Totally fine.”

“Sirius,” Remus said gently, stepping closer. “Just—calm down, alright?”

But Sirius shook his head, voice tight. “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it now. I don’t.” He turned, already walking toward the gate. “I’m going home.”

“I’ll come with you,” Remus called after him, already moving to follow.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And just like that, the chaos deflated, leaving only a few stunned breaths in its wake.

Evan glanced at Barty. Then at Regulus, who looked like he wanted to vanish entirely. James rubbed a hand over his face like he’d aged a decade in the last five minutes.

“Well,” Evan said dryly, breaking the silence. “Hell of a party.”

REMUS

They walked in silence for a long time.

The streets were mostly empty, the quiet stretch between the party and home broken only by the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. Sirius hadn’t said a word since storming out the garden gate, jaw set, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat like if he let them out, they’d betray him.

Remus didn’t push.

Not at first.

He stayed beside him, walking in step, offering presence more than anything else. But the tension in Sirius’s frame never let up. Not even after blocks and blocks of quiet. Not even after the sting of the party had started to fade into something duller.

It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was something heavier.

They were almost home when Remus finally spoke.

“What did you want to tell me?” he asked, voice low. “Before everything happened.”

Sirius didn’t look at him. He kept walking, eyes fixed ahead.

“It wasn’t important,” he said.

A pause.

“Didn’t seem like that before.”

Sirius’s mouth twitched — a ghost of something bitter. “Yeah, well. Perspective, I guess.”

Remus stopped walking.

Sirius took two more steps before realizing, then turned back to glance at him, the streetlamp casting his face in uneven light. There was something tired in his eyes. Raw.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius muttered. “S’just…not tonight, okay?”

“But, later?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Moony.”

Remus didn’t press him again.

Instead, he nodded — once, quietly — and caught up. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter Text

EVAN

“For fuck’s sake, Pete. Stop staring at him,” James mumbled, dragging a hand down his face like even the act of being perceived was too much.

They were all huddled around one of the cafeteria tables — James, Peter, Mary, and Evan — half-eaten lunch trays between them, the collective energy of the school jittering with impatience. Half-term was so close, you could taste it. Just a few more hours of classes. A few more painful hours pretending things were normal. Then freedom.

Well, after football practice, anyway. Which promised to be fun, considering James and Sirius were in a Cold War and half the team was holding its breath waiting for a detonation. That, and the fact that Evan himself was currently trying very hard not to spiral about certain things. Barty things. Stupid, impossible, un-figure-outable Barty things.

He picked at his sandwich, more to look occupied than out of any real appetite.

“I’m sorry!” Peter said around a mouthful of crisps, shrugging with the wide-eyed innocence of a puppy caught chewing up the couch cushions. “It’s just… I mean. You and Regulus? It’s weird, mate.”

James groaned, dropping his head to the table with a thud. “Please don’t remind me.”

“I don’t think it’s that weird,” Mary chimed in, casual as anything, as she plucked a crisp from Peter’s tray like it belonged to her. “I mean, remember his tragic little crush on Lily last year? It’s obvious James has a thing for people who’ll verbally eviscerate him before breakfast.”

Peter snorted. “So, masochism.”

“Shut up,” James mumbled into his arms, voice muffled and pitiful. “Sirius is never going to forgive me.”

There was a pause at the table — the kind that stretched slightly too long.

Evan followed James’s gaze across the room, to where Sirius was sitting with Remus, Marlene, Dorcas, and Lily. Their table looked almost aggressively normal: Remus calmly flipping through a textbook, Marlene mid-story with her hands flying, Lily sipping from a carton of juice like she wasn’t lowkey planning everyone’s future in her head. Sirius, though — he was the problem. Silent. Still. Staring into space like he’d just seen the end of days.

No one had expected this version of his wrath. Not a public blow-up. Not storming out. No — instead, Sirius had weaponized his silence. Two days of radio static. No texts. No snide remarks. No glares. Just… absence.

It was terrifying.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” Peter said, pouting. “I don’t want to pick sides.”

“No one’s picking sides,” James offered, lifting his head just long enough to give him a weak smile. “There’s no need to. I fucked up.”

“I mean, I have,” Mary said, eyebrows raised like a challenge. “Sirius is being a child. He needs to get a grip.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Okay then. I have a side.” He leaned dramatically toward Mary, earning a small kiss on the cheek that made him beam.

Well, at least some couples were thriving. Mary and Peter were still disgustingly in sync. And Marlene and Dorcas too. Meanwhile, Evan glanced down at his tray and thought: What the hell am I even doing?

He ran a hand through his hair, dragging his focus back to James.

“Give it time, yeah?” Evan said, trying to sound reassuring, even though he wasn’t feeling very reassured about anything lately. “You two will make up. You’re too close not to.”

James nodded slowly. “Yeah. Probably.”

But his eyes betrayed him — glancing over again, this time not at Sirius, but at Regulus.

Evan tracked his gaze and, sure enough, there he was — across the cafeteria, calm and cool as ever, tucked between Pandora and Barty. He looked perfectly unbothered. Of course he did. 

“Anyway,” James said, eyes flicking back to Evan, “how did it go for you?”

Evan blinked. He hadn’t expected the question. For a second, all he could think of was the way Barty had looked at him. The way his breath had hitched when Evan had touched him. The tension coiled under his skin like something electric and alive.

“Honestly?” Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No idea. Couldn’t tell you.”

He pushed his tray away, appetite fully gone now. “But the break will do me good. I need the distance.”

“You and me both, mate,” James said, letting his shoulders slump. “You and me both.”

Evan nodded once, then let his gaze drift across the cafeteria one more time — past Sirius’s hunched shoulders, past Regulus’s unreadable expression, and finally to the door, already picturing the cool, clean silence of being anywhere else.

Two more hours. Then maybe he could start to breathe again.

SIRIUS

The sun was already too bright.

It caught on every metal surface, every bead of sweat, every pair of smug, stupid eyes Sirius wanted to punch through the back of their skulls. His boots skidded against the turf in sharp, angry bursts as he lunged forward in drills, barely registering the whistle blasts or shouts from the coach. Everything around him was noise. Background hum. Useless.

James was somewhere behind him. Or beside him. Or watching him. Sirius didn’t care.

Except he did.

His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it.

It had been two days since the party, and Sirius still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t unsee it — James’s hands in Regulus’s hair, the way they’d pulled apart like they’d been caught doing something forbidden. Because they fucking had.

Regulus. His brother.

And James. His best friend.

It would’ve hurt less if it had been anyone else. Literally, anyone. The betrayal sat in his chest like wet gravel. Every time he looked at James, it got heavier. Every time he replayed the scene, his stomach turned.

Not to mention — in the middle of all that chaos — he’d missed his moment with Remus. He’d been ready. He was going to say it. And then the universe had handed him that instead.

So yeah, needless to say, he was pretty fucking pissed at the whole ordeal

And now James was jogging up beside him like nothing had happened. Like things were fine. Like they hadn’t shattered something between them beyond repair.

Alright, maybe he was exaggerating.

Truth was, James was walking on eggshells. Sirius could tell. He kept his voice level, movements calm, a model teammate. And to be fair, he had tried to talk — ten times already. Sirius had ignored every single one.

So yeah, maybe he was being irrational. But he had no intention of changing that.

“Right side, Pads,” James called, passing the ball.

Sirius didn’t respond. Just kicked it back — harder than necessary. It nearly hit another player in the shin. The guy yelped, glaring. Sirius ignored him.

James jogged back, catching up again. “You good?”

Wrong question.

“I’m fine,” Sirius said flatly.

“Because you’ve been acting like I ran over your dog.”

That did it.

Sirius stopped short and turned, sharply.

 “You think this is funny?”

“I-I—” James’s face fell. “Sorry, just trying to keep it light—”

“Try harder.”

Another whistle. “Black! Potter! MOVE!”

They broke apart — but barely. Sirius let the drills drag him forward, but he could feel the heat rising in his face. In his fists. He couldn’t focus. He didn’t want to. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again.

Regulus, looking flushed and small.

James, smiling.

The look they gave each other like they were alone in the goddamn universe.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

And just when Sirius had been making progress with Regulus — real progress — he had to go and ruin it by falling for James fucking Potter. The prick. Maybe he’d done it on purpose. To punish him.

He was supposed to be mine, Sirius thought bitterly. My best friend. Not Regulus’s. Not—

Another pass. James again. Too soft. Lazy. Sirius lunged after it, but this time he didn’t stop when the whistle blew. He kept going.

Shoulder. Collision.

James went stumbling back two steps, barely catching himself.

“Oi!” James barked.

“BLACK!” the coach shouted again, whistle blasting. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

“It’s fine, Coach,” James supplied, hastily. “Just a bad pass.”

Sirius turned to him, jaw twitching. “A pass, uh? How bout the one you made at my brother, you traitor?”

The words landed like a slap. This was neither the time not the place. But, as he’d said before, Sirius wasn’t a particularly considerate of others. Especially when his anger took over.

James stepped forward, both palms out like he was trying to calm a wild animal.

“Sirius—don’t do this here, alright?”

The pitch was silent now. No whistles. No shouting. Just the birds overhead and a single heartbeat thundering in Sirius’s ears, while everyone seemed to have stopped to watch the show.

“Could’ve been anyone,” Sirius snapped, voice rising. “Anyone. But no. You just had to—with him?”

James flushed. “I was going to tell you.”

“Yeah? When?” Sirius stepped in. “At the altar? During your vows?”

“I didn’t know how!” James shot back, voice cracking. “I was going to—I just—”

“Yeah, I really wonder why,” came a voice behind them. Low. Amused.

Sirius turned so fast it was like something snapped in his spine.

“What’s that, Crouch?” he snarled.

Barty was leaning lazily on his heels, that same bored, punchable expression on his face.

“Just saying,” he drawled. “You’d be hard-pressed to explain any of this without sounding like a lunatic.”

“Say that again,” Sirius growled, stepping forward.

“Oh please,” Barty pushed off the post. “Go cry about it to someone else. Preferably not in the middle of practice—”

Oh no. That’s it.

The nerves on this asshole.

“Yeah? You’re one to talk!” Sirius spat, with a humorless laugh. “How many practices have you ruined with your weird alpha-male bullshit with Evan?”

Barty’s eyes darkened. To his credit, he didn’t expect this to rattle the boy that much. Yet, it was enough for him to stalk forward until they were chest to chest.

“Guys, stop this—” James said, seemingly desperate to avoid any escalation. However, neither he nor Barty spared him a glance.

“Get lost, Black.”

“Leave it, Barty.” Evan suddenly spoke, out of nowhere. He was now standing next to James, looking every bit as anxious.

Sirius clocked that immediately. First name basis, uh? Great. Another betrayal to add to the pile.

It almost worked. For a second, Sirius really thought that Crouch was about to drop it for real.

But Sirius couldn’t let it end there. He was angry, too angry to back down, and he needed to direct that at someone. Crouch was just as good as any. Better than James, because he could never hurt James.

He waited until Barty’s back was half-turned — then shoved him hard between the shoulders.

Barty spun, eyes alight, and slammed both palms into Sirius’s chest. The hit was solid, enough to knock Sirius back a step — and then it all broke loose.

Fists. Elbows. Snarled curses.

They went down hard — a tangle of limbs and fury, skin against turf, someone shouting his name. Sirius got one clean hit to Barty’s ribs before a blow landed hard across his cheekbone. Something cracked — it might’ve been a knuckle, or a rib, or just Sirius’s last remaining ounce of self-control. Shouts erupted all around them.

Blood in his mouth. He didn’t care.

Someone was trying to pull them apart. Didn’t matter.

Barty swung again. Sirius ducked low, tackled him, teeth clenched, a growl ripping through his throat like an animal.

“ENOUGH!” the coach barked.

His firm hand grabbed Sirius by the collar and yanked him up, dragging him back.

He looked up to find Barty was up again too, breathing hard, wiping blood from his mouth. His lip was split but he barely seemed bothered. Next to him, Evan still had a fist twisted in Barty’s jersey, knuckles white, indicating that he’d been the one to pull him away from Sirius.

How ironic, really.

Sirius, on the other hand, had blood on his chin and a deep throb in his shoulder. His nose hurt too, though not enough to have been broken. Still, it fucking hurt. Not to mention the bruises on his ego, because Crouch had clearly given more than he had taken.

“Jesus Christ,” the coach sighed heavily as he looked him up and down. “Black, to the infirmary with me. Now.”

“I’m fine,” Sirius snapped, but his vision was already swimming.

“You’re not,” the coach snapped back. “Meanwhile—” He turned to Barty. “Locker room. Sit. Ice. I have some in my office fridge.”

“How fancy,” Barty muttered, rolling his eyes. “But I’m fine, I can g—”

“NOT AN OFFER, CROUCH!” the coach roared. Sirius flinched.

“So you will sit your ass down in that room until I personally tell you to leave. Got it?”

Barty didn’t answer — just scoffed and turned away.

“Rosier!” the coach snapped. “You stay with him. Keep him in there. Everyone else — OUT!”

He gave Sirius one final yank. “Let’s go, Black.”

He didn’t fight it. Not because he agreed — but because he was done. Spent. Shaking.

As he was dragged away, he didn’t look back. Not at James.  Not at Barty, or Evan, or even Peter. But he felt their stares, heavy on his back like weight he couldn’t drop.

BARTY

Barty winced as he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above the locker room sink. The cut didn’t hurt, not really — Black fought like a cornered animal. Wild, frantic, mostly show. All bark, no bite. Like a fucking chihuahua.

Still, the damage was visible: split lip, smeared blood, the kind of swelling that made him look like he was permanently pouting. Disgusting. He hated how it softened his face, made him look like he was sulking — like he cared.

He was still frowning at it when Evan’s voice cut through behind him.

“Found it.”

Barty turned. Evan stood a few paces away, holding a makeshift ice pack like it was some kind of peace offering. He had that infuriating half-smile on his face — the one that always made Barty feel like he was being seen through, catalogued, and found slightly amusing.

Barty extended a hand for the ice.

But Evan didn’t hand it over. Instead, he walked past him, placing it neatly on the metal tray by the sink. Then, from the pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small bottle and a folded cloth.

“Betadine,” he said simply. “You’ve got a cut.”

Barty eyed the antiseptic like it was a trap. “I can do it,” he said, clearing his throat, reaching out.

Evan arched a brow. “Who said I was going to let you?”

Barty’s hand stalled in midair. The heat crept up his neck like an itch. “I—”

“Relax.” Evan’s voice was lazy, drawling now. “I’m just messing with you.”

Smug bastard.

And before Barty could formulate a coherent response — or shut him down — Evan moved closer, lifted the cloth, and pressed it gently against his lip.

The sting was minimal. Barely a burn. But the closeness was sharp.

Evan’s fingers brushed his chin lightly, steadying him, and his eyes didn’t stray for a second.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, low.

Barty shook his head — more a twitch than a gesture. Speaking meant opening his mouth, which meant tasting antiseptic. No, thanks.

“Sirius definitely came out worse,” Evan said after a beat, dabbing once more before tossing the cloth into the trash behind him. “Don’t know if I should be flattered or jealous, really.”

Barty gave him a narrow look. “Why?”

Evan shrugged, reaching for the ice. “We’ve had our fair share of fights, haven’t we? You’ve never made me bleed. So either you’ve gone soft, or you’ve decided I’m not worth the trouble.”

Barty didn’t blink. “Could’ve just asked.”

Evan’s smile turned feline. “Kinky.”

The heat shot up Barty’s spine like a live wire. Without thinking, he reached for his lip — pinched at it, hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Bad habit.”

Evan just laughed — soft and dry — then handed him the ice, wrapping Barty’s hand around it gently.

“Ten minutes,” he said, like it was a prescription.

His voice was calm. Unbothered. Too normal. Like this was nothing. Like they were nothing. Barty pressed the ice to his mouth, silent, his eyes locked on the floor. Something was hanging in the air. He could feel it — thick and static-heavy. Evan was going to bring it up. The party. The kisses. The hands. The whole goddamn mess.

He braced for it.

But instead, Evan muttered, “Sirius hits like a drama student. All flair, no follow-through.”

Barty blinked. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re not going to push it?”

Evan paused, hand on a towel now, one brow raised. “Push what?”

“You know what,” Barty said, annoyed now. “At the party. We—you know.”

Evan stared at him a moment. Then: “Would you want me to?”

“I— I don’t—”

“There it is again,” Evan said, stepping closer. “The contradiction.”

His tone didn’t rise. If anything, it softened. But that made it worse. More intimate. More dangerous.

“Look,” he continued. “I meant what I said.”

He crouched slightly, bringing their eyes level. His face unreadable. His voice careful. “I said all I had to say. And I also meant it when I said I was tired. I’ve got what — three rounds on you now?”

Barty didn’t respond.

“So now,” Evan murmured, “it’s your turn.”

He reached forward, plucked the ice from Barty’s hand, and set it aside with precision. Then, slowly, deliberately, his thumb ghosted over Barty’s bruised lip — featherlight. Not a kiss. Not even a touch, really. Just contact.

“You always look like you’re about to bite me,” Evan said, smiling just slightly. “Not that I’d complain.”

Barty’s breath caught. Something in him coiled tight. He didn’t move, didn’t blink.

And then—
click.

The door creaked open behind them.

“Alright, enough brooding,” the coach barked. “Rosier — go.”

Evan turned toward the door, gave a quick, easy nod. But before he stepped out, he looked back one last time.

His gaze was soft now. Almost amused. Almost tender.

“Well,” he said, quiet but crystal-clear, “you know where to find me.”

Then he was gone.

The coach launched into a half-hearted lecture about fighting during drills, forcing both boys to shake hands like it meant anything. But Barty barely heard him. His lip throbbed dully under the lingering ghost of Evan’s thumb. His skin was hot. His stomach tight.

You know where to find me.

Fuck.

He did. 

He didn't, however, know what to do with it. 

REGULUS

Regulus let out a long breath as he rang the bell to his uncle’s apartment, already regretting the decision to come in person. He could have texted. Or avoided the whole thing entirely. But that would’ve been cowardly — and Regulus Black wasn’t a coward. Not when it came to Sirius.

He’d considered catching him at school, but from what he’d gathered, that would’ve been pointless. Sirius had been shutting James out like it was a competitive sport. If he wouldn’t even let his best friend speak, why the hell would he give him the time of day?

So Regulus had waited. Let things settle. Let Sirius stew. Rehearsed and re-rehearsed the conversation in his head — tone modulated, defenses armed, emotional concessions carefully balanced. And now here he was, standing on a doorstep with all that nerve draining straight through the soles of his shoes.

Still no answer. With a soft, theatrical eye-roll — mostly at himself — he pulled out his phone and called his uncle. The man informed him, in his usual breezy tone, that he wouldn’t be home for a few hours, but Regulus could help himself to the hidden key. Under the mat. Obvious as ever.

He let himself in and went straight to Sirius’s room, his pulse oddly steady. If this turned into a screaming match, so be it. He could handle it.

He pushed open the door to find Sirius lying on the bed, headphones in, staring at the ceiling like the universe had personally wronged him. At the sight of Regulus in the doorway, he sat up sharply — surprised, but only for a second. The look that followed was pure venom.

“Go away, you traitor.”

Regulus snorted, stepping in despite the hostility. “And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”

Sirius stood, arms crossed like a barricade, jaw set. “I don’t want to hear it. Get lost.”

“Hear what?”

“Your shameful apology.”

“I didn’t come here to apologize.”

That stopped him. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, cracking through the indignation. He blinked, disarmed. Clearly, he’d grown used to James running after him with endless variations of I’m sorry. Of course he’d expect the same from Regulus.

But Regulus wasn’t James. He wasn’t going to beg for understanding. Not when he’d spent his whole life understanding Sirius without ever being understood in return.

“Go on, then,” Sirius said finally, suspicious but curious. “Say whatever it is.”

“I didn’t come here to apologize,” Regulus repeated, voice calmer now, more deliberate. “Because I’m not sorry.”

He let that hang between them — a deliberate beat. He could see Sirius bracing, waiting for a punch.

“I am sorry that you had to find out like that,” he continued. “I’m sorry James didn’t get to tell you himself — the way he wanted to. And yeah, I’m sorry you caught us. That must’ve been…shitty.”

Another breath. The words were coming easier now, even if his heart felt too big for his chest.

“But I’m not sorry that I like him.” He lifted his chin. “Because I really do. And for some baffling, miraculous reason, he likes me too. He’s… good to me, Sirius. He makes me feel safe. Lighter. I’m less afraid when I’m with him.”

He paused again, voice dipping. “I don’t know where it’s going. I’m not claiming it’s some grand love story. But I want to find out. And I’m not going to stop just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

He met his brother’s gaze, unwavering.

“So, yeah. That’s the truth.”

Sirius stared at him, like he was trying to decipher a different language. Then: “You like him?” he said, incredulous. “Like, for real?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Are you deaf? Yes. I do.”

“I just—” Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Regulus said, stepping closer. “I get that it’s weird. I do. But if you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. Don’t take it out on James.”

I can survive you ignoring me. Hating me, even.

He won’t.

He didn’t say it aloud. Didn’t need to.

Sirius let out a noise — frustrated, disbelieving. “It’s just—I can’t believe he didn’t talk to me. About it. Like, even before anything happened. ‘Hey, Pads, by the way, I’ve got a crush on your baby brother.’ Would’ve been nice.”

Regulus gave him a long look. Then, quietly: “Did you tell him about Lupin?”

The reaction was instant. Sirius froze. Every muscle tensed. His expression folded in on itself.

Got him.

“You can be close to someone and still keep things to yourself,” Regulus said, gently now. “Especially things that are confusing. Scary. You know that.”

Sirius cursed under his breath. “God, I hate it when you make a point.”

It was the closest he’d get to a white flag.

Regulus allowed himself a flicker of hope. Not much — just enough to keep from falling apart.

“I’m gonna go now,” he said, already backing toward the door. “But… again. Don’t punish him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitated in the doorway. “Also… I know it’s a lot to ask, but—can you not cancel on the trip to France?”

Sirius groaned. “Fuck. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Well, Mother hasn’t. If you ditch, she’ll go nuclear.”

A pause.

“I’ll think about it.”

And, well, he knew better than to push it.

“Thanks.” Regulus nodded. “Okay. See you. Hopefully… in France.”

He left the room, nerves still coiled tight in his stomach. But also — strangely — lighter.

For once, he’d said what needed saying.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

He had nearly turned back three separate times between the front door of his flat and the check-in counter. First, when the cab pulled up, and he realised he hadn’t packed deodorant — he considered that an omen. Then again, at Heathrow, when he saw a child screaming into an iPad and imagined that sound for the next hour and fifteen minutes. And finally, right outside security, where he stood with his boarding pass in one hand and a deep, irrational longing to vanish into the floor in the other.

But he’d made it this far. Plane boarded. Luggage tossed into the hold. Sunglasses on, headphones in, world at arm’s length.

Now, walking toward the arrivals hall of Charles de Gaulle with his duffel slung over one shoulder and his jaw locked tight, he scanned the crowd with a practiced scowl. It was too early for this many people to be so enthusiastic.

Then he spotted him.

Regulus stood stiff-backed beside a gleaming chrome pillar, coat folded neatly over one arm, phone in the other. He looked absurdly polished for someone greeting family — like he was about to close a deal, not pick up his brother.

Regulus’s eyes widened when he spotted him, and he lowered his phone mid-text, blinking once like he didn’t quite believe it. “You came,” he said flatly, as Sirius approached.

He huffed. “I told you I boarded the plane. What d’you think I could have done? Hijack it?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you, honestly,” Regulus shrugged. “You can be very resourceful when you want to.”

“Well,” Sirius muttered, brushing past him, “your belief in me is always touching.”

Regulus turned to follow. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sirius adjusted his grip on the strap of his bag. “Not staying the whole time anyway.”

Regulus’s brow lifted. “Oh?”

“Got shit to do.” A lie, or half of one. “Also, I value my sanity.”

They stopped near the sliding glass doors where a suited chauffeur held up a little sign with Black on it in crisp lettering. Sirius gave it a long, theatrical look, then turned to his brother, head cocked. “Where’s the grudge?”

Regulus blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You know.” Sirius gestured vaguely. “The Mother. The matriarch. Our personal Dementor. Where is she?”

Regulus snorted. “At the Savoy. Lunching.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “Of course she is. Christ. Rich people.”

Regulus didn’t deny it — just pressed his lips together in that resigned little smirk that said, you know what she’s like.

Sirius sighed, tipping his head back dramatically toward the vaulted ceiling. “Well. Let’s see how months of therapy hold up against her, shall we?”

They began walking, the rhythm of their footsteps quickly syncing in that way that always annoyed Sirius, though he never admitted why. Something about the unconsciousness of it. The inevitability. No matter how far apart they drifted, they still matched.

But before they reached the waiting car, Regulus slowed. “Just—” He touched Sirius’s arm lightly. “Before we go…”

Sirius paused, eyebrows raised.

Regulus inhaled. “Thank you. For doing this.”

Something in Sirius’s expression shifted — the wryness cracking, just a little. “Don’t make that weird either.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

Regulus gave him a withering look. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Sirius said, starting toward the car again, “here I am. Saintly. Selfless. Voluntarily re-entering the lion’s den.”

Regulus followed, quietly smiling now. “Well. Perhaps she won’t complain about your hair this time.”

“Oh, she will.” Sirius threw him a look over his shoulder. “She always finds a way.”

They stepped out into the chilly Paris air together, bracing themselves — against the wind, against their mother, against each other.  But who cared? He wasn’t here for the nostalgia anyway. Not for the family, or for appearances, or because he gave a damn what their mother thought. He was here because Regulus had asked. And Sirius, for whatever godforsaken reason, was still the sort of idiot who answered when his brother called, apparently.

It was going to be a long weekend. But he’ll push through.

For his brother. Not for everyone else’s sake.

---

“I just think it’s in rather poor taste,” Walburga concluded, swirling her wine with the kind of refined disdain only she could weaponize.

The conversation had drifted, as it always did, into the moral decline of modern society. This time, it centered around a woman—some second cousin of someone’s dentist’s wife—divorcing her husband to marry a younger man. Sirius hadn’t caught the full story. Not because his mother hadn’t provided it—oh, she had—but because he’d started tuning her out somewhere around the word divorce. Dissociation was a skill he’d mastered early, honed over years of forced civility. If he let himself truly absorb her words, he knew exactly what would happen. He’d laugh, or worse, make a smartass remark that would detonate the room like a minefield.

So far, the strategy was paying off. He’d shaken his father’s hand with a non-committal nod, greeted his mother just enough to avoid insult, and slipped into autopilot for the remainder. No one had mentioned the past. Or politics. Or Sirius’s hair. They’d even managed to avoid the words Alphard or Potter—which, frankly, felt like a collective triumph.

If he could just survive dinner, he might just survive the weekend.

A discreet jab in his ribs jolted him back. He blinked, turned his head. Regulus. Of course. His brother tilted his chin toward their mother, a subtle cue.

Sirius frowned, mouthed, what?

Regulus gave him a tight, meaningful look.

Oh.

“Sorry, Mother,” he mumbled, sitting up straighter. “Didn’t catch that.”

Walburga sighed, lips pinched. “I asked you how things were at school.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out as he searched for a safe answer. Not James. Definitely not Remus. Or Peter. Or his grades. That left—

“Good enough,” he said finally, buying time. “Especially with football.”

Yes. Sport. Sport was safe. It required no emotional nuance and came with built-in credibility. No one could scold you for talking about discipline and teamwork.

“The team is very strong this year,” he added, glancing briefly at Regulus, hoping it sounded suitably vague and unimpeachable.

“Mr Meadowes is a good instructor,” Orion chimed in for the first time, voice low and steady. “A man of strength. Discipline.”

Try sadist, Sirius thought, but nodded. “He is.”

“The name of the striker—what is it again?” Orion leaned slightly toward Regulus. “The one you’re acquainted with.”

Regulus didn’t hesitate. “Bartemius Crouch.”

Sirius blinked.

Come again?

His lips parted into a slow, incredulous grin. Bartemius? That was rich. Oh, he was so telling that to everyone. 

“You’re joking,” he said, eyebrows lifting in open delight. “His name is Bartemius?”

He barely held back the laugh rising in his throat. He glanced at Regulus, who looked… mildly betrayed.

Before his brother could mount a defense, Walburga sniffed dismissively. “It’s a perfectly fine name, Sirius.”

Yeah. For someone in Harry Potter, maybe. Or a dusty banker from 1870. Jesus Christ.

“A fine young man, too,” Orion added with approval. “Excellent player.”

“If only you could associate with such people,” Walburga muttered, glancing pointedly in his direction.

Ah. There it was. He checked the invisible stopwatch in his head. Six hours. New record.

“Would you like me to steal Regulus’s best friend?” he said lightly, folding his hands on the table. “Doesn’t seem very nice. Bit of a betrayal, really.”

Go with a joke. Always better than taking the bait.

“Don’t get smart now, Sirius.”

“Not trying to be. Just, you know, looking out for sibling bonds.”

And then, like a ghost appearing in the mirror, Regulus spoke.

“James Potter is a very good captain.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Sirius’s eyes widened as he slowly turned to look at him. He hadn’t meant to say that. That much was obvious. His voice had cracked slightly at the end, and he looked like he was regretting it instantly. But he held firm, even as a faint flush crept into his cheeks. What kind of parallel universe had he entered? Regulus jumping to his defense to glaze James? 

“What was that, Regulus?” Orion asked, brow raised.

“I said,” Regulus repeated, with more composure now, “he’s a very skilled captain. From what Barty—Bartemius has told me. He’s practically as in charge of the team as the coach.”

His eyes met Sirius’s again. The message was clear.

Jump in, you idiot.

“Yes,” Sirius echoed quickly. “Might get scouted too.”

Another beat passed. Then:

“Well,” Orion finally said, settling back in his chair, “let’s hope it’s enough to get you to the championship this year.”

Regulus visibly relaxed. The tension that had briefly tightened his shoulders melted away. Disaster averted. Just barely. Sirius exhaled, then reached for his water like it was whiskey.

Honestly, he had no idea what that little maneuver had been—an act of sabotage or salvation—but he appreciated it all the same. Regulus was never one for open declarations, but this was as close to solidarity as it got at this table.

---

They’d long since been dismissed from the dinner table—brisk cheek kisses and tightly wound goodnights exchanged, the kind that left a chill even in the thick warmth of the house. Regulus had ghosted away without a word, claiming exhaustion, and retreated straight to bed. Sirius, on the other hand, had been left with too many edges still poking out of his skin to sleep. He was always like this here: jittery, cornered, wired. Like something feral trying to pass for tame.

The balcony was narrow, carved out of cold stone, with ornate railing that did nothing to make it feel less like a cage. The lights of the estate’s driveway blinked faintly below him, security lamps throwing long shadows across the gravel. He perched on the railing, elbows braced on his knees, nursing his third cigarette in a row with the kind of focus usually reserved for battlefield triage.

He didn’t feel at home here. He never had. Even now, older and technically free, the place made his skin crawl. Something about the air—too still, too watchful. Like a judgment passed in silence. He felt like prey, like a mistake being observed but not corrected. Yet.

The smoke coiled around his fingers as he checked his phone, thumb dragging over the screen, skipping past what he didn’t want to face.

James.

Still unread. Still there.

Sirius stared at the name for a long time, jaw tight, tongue caught between apology and annoyance. He hadn’t come around to the idea of James and his brother yet—if he ever would. Mostly, he still wasn’t over the fact that James hadn’t told him. That was the part that stuck. The deception, the quiet lie. And maybe, if he were being truly honest with himself, the distance. Like James had chosen someone else to be close to, to tell things to. That stung more than he liked to admit.

He sighed sharply, fingers moving on instinct now. The other name that lived at the top of his recent calls. The one that meant something different.

Remus.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to hear his voice, but because every time he did lately, it stirred up too many things. Ever since the party—the missed moment, the almost-confession—Sirius had felt the shift. Like the window had snapped shut behind him and all he could do now was stare at the locked pane.

He’d rehearsed it. Rewound the moment in his head a thousand times. What he should’ve said. How he could’ve framed it. But every version sounded false. Or worse, pathetic.

Because how do you tell your best friend you might be in love with them?

Especially after they asked you point blank and you’d lied to their face.

What was it you wanted to tell me anyway?

And he’d mumbled something about being too drunk. A lazy, cowardly evasion. Jesus. He’d basically gaslit him.

Cockblocked by his own brother and his best friend.

Gross. Not going there.

Before he could think better of it, he hit call.

It rang three times before the line picked up, a familiar voice blooming through the speaker, low and amused.

“How do you say ‘oh my god do you know what time it is, asshole’ in French?” Remus drawled, no real bite to it.

Sirius snorted. “You weren’t sleeping though.”

“Nah. Arguing for the sake of principle.” A pause. Then more gently: “Been meaning to call actually. How’s it going?”

Sirius let his head tip back against the wall, smoke curling out of his mouth like an answer. “Weirdly okay,” he admitted. “I mean, I hate it, and I can’t wait to leave, but it’s not as awful as I thought.”

“Oh.” There was a beat of quiet surprise. “Well. That’s nice. When are you coming back?”

“Day after tomorrow.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We could hang out if you’re—I mean, if you feel like it. Go see a movie or something?”

“Sure, Pads. I’d like that.” Another pause. “Maybe we could invite James—”

“Ugh,” Sirius groaned, dragging the sound out like it hurt.

“You have to talk to him at some point,” Remus said mildly, but not without care. “He’s driving me crazy.”

“It’s just so weird!”

“Then say that to him.” A sigh, soft but firm. “It’s still better than nothing.”

“Mh…”

“I get that you’re mad, I really do, but—” Remus exhaled again. “It’s not completely fair, you know?”

Sirius frowned, flicking ash off the edge of the railing. “What do you mean?”

“The not telling you part is fucked, no debate. But liking your brother?” A quieter pause this time. More delicate. “You don’t really get to choose who you fall for.”

Something in Sirius’s chest twisted, sharply. A dull kind of ache he was used to ignoring. But those words—coming from Remus of all people—landed differently. Not because he didn’t know them to be true, but because they reflected something back at him he hadn’t been ready to look at.

You don’t get to choose. And once it’s there—once you’ve seen it for what it is—there’s no putting it back. You can’t undo it. You just live with it. Shape your days around it.

James had at least had the guts to do something. To admit it. Try. And Regulus had—Christ—he’d returned it. From that moment on, how do you say no to that? If someone you want wants you back, how do you walk away?

“Sirius?” Remus asked softly. “Are you here?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he muttered. “I was thinking.”

“’Bout what?”

“About how you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” A pause. Then, teasing: “But also?”

Sirius smiled, lips pressed tight around the cigarette. “I should talk to James. I will. When I’m back.”

“Thank god.” He could hear Remus smiling too now, voice brighter. “So: telling James you still love him at 1PM, cinema at 2?”

Sirius huffed a laugh, letting his head thump lightly against the stone. “Sounds like a plan.”

---

Despite having fallen asleep well past midnight—mind spinning, nicotine still humming in his veins—Sirius found himself stirring far earlier than expected. He cracked one eye open to the thin grey light slicing through the curtains and groaned, hoping he could will himself back into unconsciousness. No such luck. He tossed. Turned. Re-fluffed the pillow. Re-positioned his limbs in every configuration known to man. But by the time the clock blinked 9:23, he gave up.

After thirty more minutes of waging war with his bedsheets and losing spectacularly, Sirius finally got up, groaning as his feet hit the cold floor.

Padding downstairs in one of his oversized sweatshirts, he moved with the dazed heaviness of someone still unsure how awake he was meant to be. The soft sound of jazz filtered faintly from the kitchen, and Sirius froze in mild disbelief when he spotted Regulus sitting at the small table, quietly nursing a coffee, the steam curling toward his face.

No parents. No judging stares. No stiff conversation. Just his brother.

Huh.

“Morning,” Sirius muttered, blinking against the light as he moved to pour himself a cup from the carafe. He glanced around, surprised by the silence. “Where are—?”

“Out,” Regulus cut in smoothly, without looking up from the newspaper he’d been half-pretending to read. “Last-minute shopping for the gala tonight. They’ll be back around four.”

Oh.

That information landed like a soft pillow—unexpectedly pleasant. Sirius raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Peace and quiet in this house was a rare currency, and he wasn’t about to question it.

He stirred a bit of sugar into his mug and leaned against the counter, letting himself watch Regulus for a moment. His brother looked… comfortable. Relaxed, even. A loose sweatshirt, bare feet, that unreadable expression he always wore when he thought no one was looking. It was the kind of quiet domestic image Sirius wouldn’t normally associate with him—and yet here it was, unfolding naturally in front of him.

He took a long sip, smirking over the rim of the mug. Then, casually: “So, what should we do about that?”

Regulus glanced up, wary. “About what?”

“The fact that we have the house to ourselves. All day. Surely you’re not suggesting we wait around like proper little boys.”

Regulus blinked, clearly caught off guard. “There are puzzles in the library if you’re bored.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a dramatic hand down his face. “Jesus, you’re hopeless.”

“I’m practical,” Regulus said dryly, going back to sipping his coffee.

But Sirius wasn’t done. He crossed the kitchen and leaned onto the table, invading his brother’s space just enough to provoke.

“Come on, Reg. We’re in Paris. You don’t want to waste it sitting around listening to a jazz playlist, do you?”

Regulus gave him a skeptical look, but Sirius could see the gears turning behind it.

“I mean,” Regulus finally said, clearing his throat, “we do have a few hours to kill… and there’s this new bookshop near Montmartre I’ve been meaning to check out.”

“There we go!” Sirius beamed, already upright again and rinsing out his mug. “That’s the spirit. You bring the maps, I’ll bring the charm.”

“I’m not letting you navigate,” Regulus warned.

“And I’m not letting you wear all black again. You’ll melt.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, which Sirius took as a win.

“Right,” Sirius called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hallway, “fifteen minutes! Meet you downstairs, fresh and fashionable.”

He didn’t see it, but as Regulus sat back with a quiet sigh, the smallest of smiles curled on his lips—wry and reluctant, but there.

---

It was easy to let bad faith cloud your memories.

This was becoming painfully clear to Sirius as he walked through the streets of Paris, a city he’d spent the better part of his life detesting — not for any fault of its own, but for the simple fact that it had once been so closely tied to his family. Every holiday, every tedious summer spent dragging behind his mother’s heels through overpriced boutiques and grim little tea rooms, every stifling dinner party with “proper” French aristocrats who somehow made English purebloods look casual.

He used to say Paris was the worst place in the world. A snob’s fantasy.

But now? Now he felt like offering an apology to every street they passed — every chipped storefront and faded café window, every rusted balcony, and overgrown garden, every damp-smelling metro station and overflowing trash can.

There was something about the city. Something vibrant. Something alive in a way that was less glamorous and more… quietly defiant. It wasn’t trying to be pretty for you. It just was. Decidedly urban and bohemian at the same time — cigarette smoke, broken poetry, ancient books. Sirius could almost understand why people fell in love with it.

So far, they had spent most of the morning simply walking. No particular destination. Sirius was surprisingly patient, letting his brother drag them in and out of at least five different bookstores (“They all smell the same, you know”). Meanwhile, even Regulus only complained once when Sirius made him wait in line for a bakery he’d seen on some viral video. 

Now, Sirius was throwing away yet another crumpled paper bag, fingers sticky with sugar.

Regulus eyed him sideways. “You’re going to develop an early diabetes, you know that?”

Sirius licked some jam from his thumb, unapologetic. “Needles are kind of rock ‘n’ roll anyway.”

Regulus made a face. “That’s— yeah. Okay. You’re unredeemable.”

Sirius just snorted, already distracted — his eyes caught a flash of color down the next block. A bright, painted storefront with a crooked little sign in French. His vocabulary was rusty, but the glittering mannequins and rows of hanging leather jackets spoke a universal language.

“Vintage,” he breathed. “Oh, we’re going in.”

“Wait, what—” Regulus barely had time to protest before Sirius was already grabbing his sleeve.

The shop was narrow and musty, like most vintage places, lit in golden tones with jazz playing faintly in the background. There were racks of acid-washed jeans, feather boas, and rows of curated jackets and graphic t-shirts, all artfully arranged to make chaos look intentional. Sirius made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and dove in like a man possessed.

Regulus, ever the observer, trailed behind reluctantly — arms folded, eyes half-lidded — while Sirius ransacked the racks, piling up shirt after shirt like a crow in a treasure hoard.

“You’re not trying all of that on, are you?”

“You bet I am,” Sirius replied, voice muffled from inside a rack of trench coats.

---

Half an hour and several chaotic try-ons later, Sirius finally emerged, victorious, with three items in hand: two t-shirts and a massive silver ring shaped like a rose.

He looked proud. Slightly manic. “This is restraint,” he said, unironically.

Regulus just blinked.

They regrouped outside at a nearby café, small and tucked between two crumbling buildings, where Regulus had already claimed a table with his black coffee. Sirius plopped down beside him, triumphantly uncrumpling the shopping bag.

“Behold!” he said, showing off the shirts like sacred offerings.

Regulus raised an eyebrow at one of them. A worn-out black tee with the Joy Division logo printed across the chest.

“I didn’t know you liked Joy Division that much.”

Sirius shrugged. “That one’s for Remus, actually,” he said offhandedly — too offhandedly — and he didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of fondness in his voice.

Regulus gave him a look. Sharp, amused. “What?”

“Don’t start.”

“You really like him.”

Sirius groaned, letting his head fall dramatically against the back of the chair. “Don’t tell me. It’s painful enough.”

“It would be less painful if you told him,” Regulus pointed out, utterly unbothered.

“Debatable.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think there’s a high likelihood he likes you back?”

Sirius hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He fiddled with the bag for a second, then glanced at him. “What do you think?”

Regulus blinked. “What do I— oh Jesus. You are desperate.”

“Forget it,” Sirius muttered. “Prick.”

But Regulus was pinching his lower lip now, in that quiet, pensive way he sometimes did when he was being careful with his words.

“I think…” He paused. “I think it would make a lot of sense. The two of you. That’s about all I can say, honestly.”

Sirius stared at him for a second.

That—might have been the kindest thing his brother had said to him in years. Not in the words themselves, but in the earnestness behind them. He sounded like he meant it. No scathing remark. No irony. Just… quiet truth.

“Thanks, actually,” Sirius said softly. “That’s—”

“Don’t make it a thing,” Regulus warned, already averting his eyes.

“Sure.” He smiled into his cup. Couldn’t help it.

That was when he noticed the paper bag resting against his brother’s chair. He squinted at it. “Wait a second. You bought something?”

Regulus straightened. “No, I didn’t.”

“I can see the bag.”

“It’s nothing, really—”

Too late. Sirius had already leaned across the table, snatching the bag before Regulus could stop him. He opened it, smirking, ready to mock whatever pretentious polo or antique cassette tape his brother had picked out — but his hand stilled.

Inside was a football jersey. A vintage one. French player. Clearly expensive, carefully chosen.

Sirius looked up. Regulus was staring at him, red from the tips of his ears to the edge of his collar.

He didn’t have to say who it was for. It was obvious.

Sirius cleared his throat.

He could have said something biting. Teased. Even gotten angry, if he wanted to. But there was something oddly sweet — pure, even — about it. The way Regulus had quietly picked something out. Something personal. For James. And then tried to hide it, like it was something shameful.

With unexpected gentleness, Sirius placed the bag back in front of him.

“Regulus?” he said, waiting until his brother looked up.

He smiled. Not mocking. Just warm. “He’s going to love it.”

Regulus blinked — and all the tension seemed to drain from his face at once. He gave a quick, barely-there nod. But Sirius saw it: the shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… hopeful.

And Sirius, for once, didn’t ruin it with words.

---

The gala came and went in a blur of stiff collars, too-sweet champagne, and conversations that drained more energy than they were worth. Sirius had floated through it on autopilot, nodding when expected, smiling just enough to get by. By the time he made it back home, it felt like the whole thing had taken place in another timeline entirely — a surreal, gilded detour that didn’t quite belong to him. Still, if he was honest, there was something to be said for the weekend. It had been good. With Regulus. Not perfect — never that — but steady in a way that surprised him. They hadn’t argued once. There were even moments that bordered on ease, real and light, unweighted by the past. And that was something. Not a clean slate, but a step forward. Maybe that was enough.

He let his bag thump to the floor by the door and stood there for a second, just listening. The flat was quiet — the kind of quiet that hugged the walls, familiar and still. For all his complaints about England, about the grey and the noise and the ache of it, there was something grounding in being back here. Something solid beneath his feet again.

Before boarding the plane, he’d texted James. Said they should meet. Talk. Tomorrow. It hadn’t been a long message, but it took him three drafts to hit send. And now that he was back, the idea of it — of finally saying something, anything — pressed against his ribs. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. But the silence between them was starting to feel like a weight he couldn’t carry anymore.

Still. That could be tomorrow’s problem.

Today, he had earned the nap of a lifetime.

---

It was only mildly sunny by the time Sirius reached the town park. The light was thin, filtered through lazy clouds, but it was warm enough to sit without freezing. He had picked this spot on purpose — quiet, open, nothing too claustrophobic. A place where they could talk without the pressure of four walls closing in. Not that it would make the conversation any less awkward.

Still, it helped that James liked it here. He always walked his dog along the gravel path and had once declared the bench near the lake “the only place in this town that doesn’t smell like disappointment.”

Sirius was scrolling aimlessly through his phone when he spotted James approaching. Two smoothies in hand. Sirius recognized them instantly — his favorite, from the shop just a few streets over. He almost made a crack about James trying to bribe him, but the truth was, this was exactly the kind of thing he did all the time. Without reason. Without fanfare. Just because he was like that. Thoughtful in that annoying James Potter way.

“Hi,” James said, a little sheepishly, holding out the drink. “Mango berry blast?”

Sirius accepted it with a nod, gesturing for him to sit. He took a long gulp, grateful for the excuse to busy his mouth with something other than words. They sat in silence for a moment. The lake shimmered, dull and still.

“How was France?” James asked eventually.

Sirius shrugged. “Survived.” He held up his hand, flashing a new silver ring. “Got myself a little something.”

James leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Oh, sick! Looks great on you.”

“Yeah,” Sirius muttered, twisting it slowly on his finger.

Another pause. James scratched the back of his neck; Sirius played with his straw. Everything felt suspended — like they were both waiting for the other to jump first.

“Look, Pads—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sirius cut in, frowning. His voice wasn’t angry, exactly. Just… tight. Guarded. “I keep thinking about it, and honestly? That’s what really got me. That you hid something from me. We don’t do that. You and me. So why?”

James opened his mouth, then closed it again. Let out a breath.

“I-I…” He trailed off, then started again. “It was just…fragile, you know? With Regulus. It took him so much to even believe someone might like him like that. He was so skittish at first, like the smallest thing could make him bolt. I had to take things really slow. Reassure him. Keep the balance right.”

Sirius didn’t say anything, but his throat clenched. That tracked. Too well. For all of his bravado, he knew that Regulus was, at his core, very insecure. 

“For all the times I wanted to tell you, I swear, I wasn’t trying to be shady. I just…” James rubbed his hands together, like trying to warm them. “I was scared if I split my attention, I’d lose it. Lose him.” He paused. ‘’But I had every intention to tell you, I swear. Once it would have been more…stable, you know?’’

Sirius let out a hollow laugh, low and incredulous. He shook his head, leaning back on the couch like he was trying to outrun the conversation by sheer force of posture.

“So you just…what? Dated my brother behind my back and hoped I wouldn’t notice?”

“It wasn’t like that,” James said quickly. “It was never meant to be—like that. I didn’t even expect it to happen at all.”

Sirius shot him a look. “Right. It just happened. How convenient.”

James didn’t reply. He just stared down at his hands, thumbs rubbing a nervous pattern into his knuckles.

Silence stretched between them. The kind that felt full, not empty. The kind that pressed down on your ribs.

Sirius huffed, jaw tightening. “You know I don’t care that you’re into guys. That’s not—this isn’t about that.”

“I know.”

“It’s about him.”

James looked up.

“My brother, James. The person I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to love without choking on it. The one who still flinches when I raise my voice, even when it’s not at him. And you—you just swooped in while I wasn’t looking and made yourself important to him.”

James’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t,” Sirius snapped. “That’s the worst part. You didn’t mean to, and now it’s real.”

Another beat.

Sirius stood, pacing now, aimless and tight-shouldered. “God, I didn’t even think he liked you. He always made it sound like he barely tolerated you.”

James gave a dry, reluctant laugh. “Yeah. That’s how I knew something was up.”

That startled a huff out of Sirius. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“I just…” Sirius dragged a hand down his face. “I feel like an idiot. Like I missed it. Both of you, sneaking around, and me acting like the clueless big brother.”

“You’re not clueless,” James said, sitting forward now. “You’re…you’re a lot of things, but not that. You just had other things to worry about. You always do.”

That silenced him for a moment. Sirius looked away.

James added, softer, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to protect something. Him. And maybe me, too.”

Sirius chewed on that. Then, with a sigh: “And now?”

“Now I’d rather have you mad at me than lose both of you.”

Sirius turned back to face him. Something in his expression had shifted—still wary, still raw, but looser at the edges.

He sank back down onto the couch beside James. Close, but not touching.

After a long pause, Sirius muttered, “You better not fuck him up.”

James looked at him, eyes wide.

“I’m serious,” he added. “He’s already fucked up enough as it is. And if you do—hurt him, I mean—I won’t forgive you. I’ll try. But I won’t.”

James nodded. “I know.”

More silence.

Sirius glanced sideways. “Does he make you happy?”

A breath. “Yeah. He does.” He smiled. ‘’And I think I do too, you know? Like he’s opening up, being less guarded. It’s a good thing, I swear.’’

Sirius nodded slowly, like he was still figuring it out as he spoke. “Alright. Then I guess I’ll deal with it.”

“You will?”

“Don’t push it.” But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion and a flicker of something softer.

And maybe later, alone in his room, he’d allow himself to feel the absurdity of it — that James bloody Potter was in love with Regulus, of all people. That maybe Regulus, against all odds, felt something back. And that maybe…just maybe…that was okay.

But he wasn’t there yet.

Not quite.

Still. He was trying.

For them.

For him.

James sighed, heavily. “God, I couldn’t stand not talking to you, you know? That was horrible.”

Sirius smiled, soft and rueful. “Yeah. Wasn’t feeling it either, to be honest.”

James turned to him, more serious now. “No more secrets, alright?”

Ah. Well.

Sirius froze for a beat. He couldn’t just nod and pretend, could he? Not after all this. Not after demanding honesty.

So he said it. Blurted it, really.

“I have feelings for Remus.” It came out faster than he meant, but surprisingly clean. Weightless, almost. Like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for ages, just waiting for permission. “But apart from that—no other secrets.”

James blinked. Caught off guard, maybe. But only for a second. Slowly, a smile crept onto his face.

“Okay. That’s great.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not,” James admitted, with an easy shrug. “I always thought you’d make a lot of sense together, actually.”

Sirius laughed—loud, startled, almost barking. “God.”

“What?”

“Regulus said the same thing. The fucker.”

James chuckled. “Smart guy.”

Sirius let out a low groan and dropped his head into his hands for a second. “I’m shit at dealing with it though. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think of a way to tell him but it’s just… so hard.”

James tilted his head, watching him. “Is it possible that you’re just buying time to not have to tell him?”

Sirius frowned. “No? I mean, not really, but—”

“Look,” James leaned in a little. “I don’t think there is a right way to do it, you know? It’s not about landing it perfectly—it’s just about doing it. And that takes balls. But you gotta have it out. There’s no cheat code.”

Sirius exhaled, slowly. “What if he rejects me? If he doesn’t even want to be friends anymore?”

James gave a dry snort. “And what if he does? That’s Remus we’re talking about. Even if he doesn’t feel the same—which I don’t believe for a second—he’s not going to cut you off. He’s not wired like that. But you have to tell him. Otherwise you’re going to drive yourself insane.”

Sirius nodded, slowly, his fingers curling over the edge of the table. “Yeah. You’re right.”

James grinned. “And then we’ll go on double dates with your brother!”

Sirius made a face. “Too soon, mate. Too soon.”

But he laughed anyway—full and genuine—and for the first time in days, the weight on his chest loosened just a little. He wasn’t there yet. But maybe, just maybe, he was getting close.

---

Getting to meet with Remus afterwards made Sirius think this must be what prisoners felt like when they were granted one last meal. One final indulgence before the gallows. A moment of sweetness before being dragged back to whatever mess awaited. Because truly—this was the best reward he could’ve asked for. One look at Remus, all sleepy-eyed and soft at the edges, and the world tilted on its axis.

Sure, his family was still shit, and yeah, his brother was now snogging his best friend, and yes, he probably had a lifetime supply of emotional repression to work through. But he was also alive at the same time as Remus Lupin. So. That evened things out.

He barely managed to contain his grin when he handed over the bag. Inside was the precious and worn black Joy Division t-shirt he’d retrieved from the thrift shop —threadbare and authentic, probably someone’s prized possession once. Now it was Remus’s. Sirius had to press his lips together to stop from laughing when Remus actually blushed. Not just pink-cheeks, but full-on turned-his-head-away, hand-tightening-around-the-bag blushed.

“Thank you,” Remus murmured, voice low and stunned, like Sirius had just gifted him a signed vinyl or the moon. It sent Sirius reeling. He might have to make this a daily ritual—forget breakfast, this was better. He’d find the budget. Sell a kidney. Who needed kidneys anyway?

“I bet it belonged to someone who actually saw them live,” Sirius said as they made their way toward the cinema, the casual lilt in his voice betraying just how proud he was of his find.

“Don’t say shit like that, I’ll faint,” Remus grinned, clutching the bag tighter to his chest like it might disappear.

“Maybe a groupie who shagged Ian Curtis.”

Remus barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Not sure he was really the type.”

They stopped at the cashier, who looked like he was counting down the hours till death. They picked a random action flick—purely based on the lead actor being attractive enough to hold their attention—and Sirius insisted on buying frozen slushies, because it felt wrong not to. The theatre was nearly empty when they entered, just a smattering of bodies here and there, and they slipped into the back row like they owned it.

Sirius gave Remus the spark notes version of Paris as the lights dimmed: the food, the chaos, the awkward family silences. He hesitated before bringing up James—but Remus just nodded, listening quietly, sipping his drink in thoughtful bursts. His focus, as always, was steady and kind.

“Well, I’m glad you two made up,” Remus said at last, voice warm in the dark. “Pete’ll be relieved. He said it felt like a divorce and he was already panicking about having to pick mum or dad.”

“Wait—I’d be dad in that situation, right?”

“Obviously,” Remus said, deadpan. “You’re not the one who keeps sunscreen in his bag for everyone all summer.”

Sirius snorted into his straw. “Fair enough.”

A beat passed. The screen glowed in the background, trailers flickering over their faces.

“When’s Pete back, anyway?”

“No idea. He’s down in Brighton visiting Mary’s grandparents, if you can believe it.”

“I can. They’re basically married already.”

Remus chuckled. “Truly revolting.”

“Oh, completely disgusting.”

They grinned at each other, that perfect, easy rhythm falling between them again. A rhythm Sirius had missed.

“Evan’s still around, though,” Remus added after a moment. “Marlene too, though she’s always off with Dorcas lately. Lily’s gone ‘til next Sunday.”

“We’re probably meeting up with Evan soon—bit of football to stay sharp,” Sirius said, lifting his cup to his lips. “Gotta keep in shape.”

“Bring boxing gloves if Barty’s around,” Remus muttered.

Sirius turned toward him with a wicked smirk. “Oh, you mean Bartemius?”

Remus blinked, caught off guard. “You’re joking. How do you know that?”

“Regulus let it slip,” he said smugly, leaning in as if sharing state secrets. “And I plan on spreading the gospel far and wide.”

“You’re evil,” Remus said, but his eyes were shining. There was no venom to it—just the familiar fondness, the kind that made Sirius’s chest ache a little.

---

The movie started, loud and fast-paced and vaguely ridiculous—just the way Sirius liked them, on any other day. But now, seated next to Remus in the near-empty theatre with a red-and-blue slushie sweating between his palms, he found that the screen blurred more and more into vague shapes and colour.

Truth was, he could barely focus. Not with Remus sitting there, his thigh just barely brushing against Sirius’s. Not when his sleeves were rolled up and the skin of his forearm was dusted gold under the projector light. Not when Sirius could still hear the shy “thank you” from earlier replaying like a record in his brain, unskippable.

It wasn’t even the shirt that had gotten him, not really. It was the way Remus had looked at him after. Like Sirius had done something… right. Like he’d figured out a secret code and cracked it open. And it had been so warm and tentative and fond that Sirius’s brain had short-circuited for a full thirty seconds and all he could do was smile like an idiot.

He’d tried to reset since then. Really, he had. But it was like sitting beside the sun and trying not to notice the heat.

The film blared on—explosions, dramatic quips, fast cars—and Sirius’s thoughts circled, uselessly, around James’s words. The way he’d described Regulus: fragile, avoidant, too unsure to believe someone might genuinely want him.

He glanced at Remus out of the corner of his eye. His profile was tilted ever so slightly toward the screen, slushie straw perched between his lips. He looked tired, in the soft, beautiful way people did when they’d finally relaxed into something. Sirius’s stomach swooped.

Was he like that too? Avoidant, fragile? Fuck, maybe they all were.

His gaze dropped, and there it was: Remus’s hand, resting on the armrest. Close enough. He watched the screen for another full minute before his fingers twitched. It was stupid. It was so stupid. But the air between them felt charged, and his hand was just there. 

What if he just did it? 

He moved his pinky first, brushing the side of Remus’s knuckle. Barely a touch. Just a test. A question.

Remus stiffened—just slightly. But he didn’t move away.

Sirius held still. Waited. Then, breath caught in his throat, he let his whole finger settle gently against Remus’s. And then—inch by inch—let his hand slide into the space between them, pressing softly, fully, against his.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then Remus’s fingers curled back around his. Not tightly. Tentative. But there.

Sirius’s pulse roared in his ears. This is it, he thought. I’m doing it. I’m actually—

But then Remus pulled away. Fast. Like he’d been burned.

Sirius blinked, his hand still hovering mid-air.

“Rem—?”

But Remus was already standing, moving toward the aisle in sharp, frustrated strides.

“What—? Remus, I didn’t—” Sirius half-whispered, half-called, but it was too late. He was already gone.

Sirius scrambled up, abandoning his slushie, chasing him into the hallway. The sudden change in lighting was jarring—fluorescent and brutal, too real.

“Remus!” he called, catching up just outside the theatre doors.

Remus turned. His jaw was tight, arms crossed like he was holding himself together.

“Why did you do that?” he said.

Sirius stopped short. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You can’t do that,” Remus cut in, voice low but tense.

Sirius’s heart sank. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do that,” Remus said again, louder now. “Not with me.”

Sirius blinked. “Do what?”

“That,” Remus said, flinging a hand toward the theatre. “Touching me like that. Looking at me like that. Buying me shirts from fucking Paris.”

Sirius stared at him. “But why is that a bad thing?”

Remus let out a breath, full of frustration and something else—tiredness, maybe. A kind of ache.

“Because,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I know that’s how you work. That’s your thing. You flirt. You touch. You say pretty things without meaning them. You’re casual. But I’m not—” he faltered, gesturing vaguely, searching for words. “I’m not like that. I can’t do that. It messes with me.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes dropping for a second. Meanwhile, Sirius blinked, utterly confused now. Casual? Since when was holding someone’s hand deemed casual? Had he been friendzoned that bad?

Remus ran a hand through his hair, turning away slightly, like maybe if he didn’t look at him directly, he could finish the sentence without combusting. His voice was tight. “You confuse me, Sirius.”

His chest sank. “That wasn’t my intention. I swear.”

“You make me feel like maybe—” Remus stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“No.” Sirius took a hesitant step forward. “Say it. Please.”

Remus let out a bitter laugh, the kind that came out when you were trying not to fall apart. “Jesus Christ. I can’t do this. You’re—God, Sirius.’’ He sighed. ‘’Look, I’m trying really fucking hard to deal with that, so no, you don’t get to hold my hand in the dark and pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“But it did mean something,” Sirius said, voice sharper now, more desperate. “I—God, I thought I was finally doing something right. That maybe you… I don’t know. Wanted me to.”

Remus froze.
His mouth opened, then shut again.

‘’Don’t play with me, please.’’

Sirius exhaled shakily. “Why do you think I got you that shirt, Moons? Because I was being casual? Because I do that for everyone? I spent an hour in that shop debating between five different sizes like a fucking lunatic because I couldn’t stop imagining you in it. And tonight—I wasn’t trying to play games, I just…” He trailed off. “I like you. Okay? That’s it. That’s all.”

There was a beat. A way, too fucking long one. One where Sirius felt like strangling himself to death. But it was too late to back down now, was it? Might as well go out with a bang. 

So he took a step forward, bracing himself for the rejection. But at least, it would be out. 

‘’I didn’t understand why, at first. But then it all made sense, you know? The way I felt towards Grant, why I was so pissed at him and—I like you. I have feelings for you. And you’re free to reject them, to reject me, but you don’t get to decide if it’s serious or not. I’m telling you, it’s not a joke and I’ve been trying to tell you desperately for weeks but—‘’

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. Because in a second, Remus had crossed the distance between them, and now his lips were on him.

Kissing him.

Oh god.

Sirius froze for half a heartbeat, his brain short-circuiting under the onslaught of sensation. Remus’s hands had found the collar of his jacket, tugging him forward with something bordering on frustration—or maybe relief. The kiss wasn’t neat or delicate. It was messy, a little desperate, all teeth and lips and months of unsaid things, and Sirius was dizzy with it.

He kissed back. Hard.

His fingers curled into the fabric of Remus’s shirt like he was afraid the world might vanish if he let go. The boy made a noise against his mouth—something low and startled—and Sirius nearly lost it right then and there.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Remus let his forehead fall against Sirius’s shoulder and laughed.

Actually laughed.

Sirius blinked, chest heaving. “Okay. I’m officially offended.”

“No, no—” Remus looked up, grinning wide, cheeks flushed. “It’s not—God. I’ve just—” He shook his head, laughing again. “I’ve liked you for so long, Sirius. You have no idea.”

Sirius stared at him, dazed.

And then it hit him, like a punch to the ribs—all the missed cues, the stolen glances, the long nights curled up talking about everything and nothing. Remus had been there, the whole damn time. Wanting him. Waiting for him.

And Sirius, in all his brilliance, had only just now caught up.

“Shit,” he said under his breath, huffing a half-laugh. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again, asshole.”

And Sirius did. He let himself fall into it completely—into the warmth of Remus’s mouth, the way his hands found Sirius’s jaw like they belonged there. Into the impossible, overwhelming relief of being kissed back, like the universe was finally letting him on one of its secrets.

Chapter Text

Barty hated being on holiday.

Free time in general was a nightmare for him, but this? This was hell on stilts. At least on a normal weekend he could bury a few hours under a mountain of homework or pretend to tolerate other people’s company. But now, with the school gates firmly shut and no imposed structure to anchor him, he was left adrift. Alone. Profoundly and insultingly unoccupied. Regulus was in France. Pandora had disappeared to the countryside. Even his stepmother had taken the first train to London to go visit friends. Not that he would’ve enjoyed her company, mind you, but still—there was something depressing about not even being afforded the illusion of choice.

The only part of the day when he wasn’t completely alone was dinner. And even then, he and his father just sat across from each other in stiff, murmured silence, eating like strangers who’d accidentally booked the same restaurant table.

Point was, he was bored out of his fucking mind.

Some days felt so long and oppressively still that he could practically feel his organs beginning to shut down, one by one, from sheer lack of stimulation.

He remembered reading about the Gatsby’s famously regimented routine and thought it sounded ideal—every hour accounted for, every moment plugged into something. No time to pause. No space for wandering thoughts.

Unfortunately for Barty, his brain had plenty of time for wandering. And it was making the most of it.

More often than not, it wandered back to Evan.

Which was… unsettling, to say the least. Because he hadn’t expected this part—the quiet ache of missing someone he saw nearly every day at school. The absence of Evan in his daily landscape had created this weird vacuum. Like someone had turned off background music he didn’t realize he relied on.

He didn’t miss his voice, exactly. Or his face. Or the way he always rolled his sleeves up unevenly. No. Definitely not those things.

Except—yes. Actually. It was all of those things.

It was the echo of Evan’s laugh. The way he used “mate” like punctuation. The way he slumped in his seat and chewed on pen caps and scowled in maths. The way his gaze lingered sometimes, thoughtful, like he was trying to solve Barty.

It was truly embarrassing how often he caught himself waiting for a message. Hoping for one. Watching his phone like some tragic ghost in a window, praying for a ping.

And this wasn’t even supposed to be the hard part. The holidays were supposed to be a reset. A break from all the tension. No more long glances across the locker room, no more stupid dreams he could pretend he hadn’t had, no more pretending not to care when Evan leaned a little too close or smiled like he knew something Barty didn’t.

This was supposed to be freedom.

So why did it feel like withdrawal?

There was something clawing at him, restless and unbearable, and he couldn’t name it. Not exactly. But it wore Evan’s face.

Eventually, he got to thinking. What if? What if he leaned into it? Maybe it was time to stop pretending it wasn’t there. Maybe, if he confronted it, poked it hard enough, it would vanish. That was the idea, wasn’t it? A temptation only stayed powerful if you refused to touch it. Let yourself have it once, and it’d lose its shine. Right? 

Maybe.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The longer he sat with it and the more the idea started to feel less like a mistake and more like a solution. But then again—what was he supposed to do, just show up at Evan’s place like some lovesick dog? Absolutely not. He still had pride. He had dignity.

…Sort of.

Still, something had to give. Barty was teetering on the edge of doing something deeply reckless—or worse, pathetic—when his phone lit up. It was the team’s group chat. 

Evan : Gonna kick some balls at the pitch if anyone wants in.

Barty’s heart did something strange. The replies were immediate:

James : Can’t today. Sorry.

Steve : Im at my grandma’s 💔

Sirius : tired

Peter : At Mary’s still.

Evan : losers. All of you.

He stared at the screen. Thumb hovering. Brain ticking.

There it was. An opening. Not a declaration, not a message, not even a real invitation—but something. An opportunity. And before he could talk himself out of it, before he could summon even a single argument against it, he was already on his feet.

He went to get his cleats.

——-

By the time Barty reached the pitch, Evan was already there. Which, of course he was. He always beat him to places, even when Barty wasn’t technically meeting him.

He had kept refreshing the group chat the entire way over—not that he’d admit that to anyone, least of all himself—just to double check that everyone else had truly declined. Still, a small rush of relief bloomed in his chest when he saw Evan out there alone, juggling the ball between his feet like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Barty lingered at the edge of the field for a second longer than necessary. Took a breath. Let it out. Then forced his shoulders back, glued on his most unimpressed expression, and walked out like this was any other day.

“Rosier.”

Evan’s head snapped up. His brows shot high, his mouth falling open in a way that looked dangerously close to delighted. “No way.”

Barty didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t. He just kept walking, arms crossed like armour, voice dry. “What are you doing here?”

Evan tilted his head, squinting slightly in the sun. “Didn’t you see my text?”

“What text?”

“The group chat.” Evan pinched his bottom lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “I said I’d be here if anyone wanted to join.”

Barty rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Do I look like I read anything in that group chat?”

And there it was. The shadow of a smile creeping up at the corners of Evan’s mouth.

“No. You don’t,” Evan said, amused. He paused for a second, letting the moment hang. “But you’re here.”

Barty huffed. “And I would like to actually play some football while I’m at it. So snap out of it and make me a pass, would you?”

Evan considered him for a second, head slightly cocked like he was watching an animal do something just out of character enough to be interesting. But then, wordlessly, he nudged the ball forward and the rhythm began.

Thank god.

Within a few minutes, they’d settled into a dynamic so easy, so instinctive, it almost annoyed Barty. Almost. Because this? This was where it made sense. Not in the weird, echoing silence of his house, not in stolen glances in the hallway, not in whatever-the-fuck had been going on in his head lately—but here. On this pitch. Boot to boot. Pass to pass. Call and response. Like they’d been doing this since they were five.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the fix. Just football. Forever. No talking. No complications. Just the clean, thoughtless feeling of knowing where Evan would be before he even moved, and sending the ball there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright—water break,” Evan panted after a while, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m about to pass out.”

“Lightweight,” Barty muttered, though his own mouth felt like sandpaper.

Evan dropped onto the grass with a theatrical thud, immediately uncapping his water bottle and downing half of it in one go. “Actually, I’m a high-performance athlete.”

“Not with that chest control, you’re not.”

“Lot of nerve coming from someone who just got nutmegged like a baby.”

Barty rolled his eyes, but the fight wasn’t in it. Not really. A few weeks ago, a comment like that would’ve made his blood spike. Now, it just sounded like Evan. The version of Evan he’d gotten used to. The one he could keep up with. Maybe even liked keeping up with.

He flopped onto the grass beside him, sweat cooling against his back.

“God, I can’t wait to stick it to Slytherin,” Evan muttered, looking up at the sky. “That game cannot come soon enough.”

Barty let himself glance sideways. He liked how the boy said it like it was inevitable. Like the win was a matter of when, not if. Like he had faith in them, not just as players, but as a team. As something .

“Agree,” Barty said finally, finishing the last of his water. He got to his feet, brushing grass from his shorts. “Come on. Let’s do some corner kicks.”

Because as long as they were moving, he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to say anything stupid. Didn’t have to admit that showing up had felt a little like relief, and a little like ruin.

—--

They’d barely made it through a second drill when the sky cracked.

It was so sudden it didn’t even feel real at first—a low groan of thunder rolling in like an afterthought, followed by a strange stillness in the air. The kind that made the hair on Barty’s arms rise. He glanced up.

Dark clouds, thick and fast. And then—

Pouring. No warning. Just rain in biblical amounts, like someone had tipped over a full bucket from the sky.

“Shit!” Evan yelled, immediately pulling his hands over his head like it would help.

Barty blinked through it, squinting as cold drops hit his face at full force. Within seconds, they were drenched to the bone. The ball skidded across the field, their cleats made that awful suction sound in the wet grass, and Barty could already feel the chill creeping down his spine.

“Well,” Evan laughed breathlessly, “I guess that’s the end of training.”

Barty didn’t answer right away. He wiped a hand across his face, slicked his wet hair back, and looked around like he was scanning for an idea that hadn’t arrived yet.

He should just call it. Say goodbye, maybe crack a joke about Evan knowing how to swim, and go.

But something made him hesitate.

Maybe it was the rain flattening everything into grey. Maybe it was how Evan looked in the middle of it—shirt clinging to his back, cheeks flushed from exertion, like he hadn’t noticed yet how ridiculous and alive he looked.

Or maybe it was just that they were here, now, and Barty didn’t want the moment to be over.

He thought about the walk back to Evan’s place. The fifteen, maybe twenty minutes in weather like this. Wet socks. Squishing shoes. Red nose.

He thought about his own place. Five minutes away. Empty. Dry.

His mind did that quick flickering thing—possibility, refusal, temptation, defense. He could just offer. It didn’t mean anything. He could say it like it was practical. Logical. Because it was.

“Come to mine,” he said, quickly, before he could second-guess it. “You’ll catch pneumonia otherwise.”

Evan glanced over, surprised. “What?”

“My place. It's closer. You can dry off and I’ll drive you home later or whatever.” Barty shrugged, trying to make it sound like the most boring sentence ever uttered. “Unless you want to swim back to yours.”

Evan tilted his head, grinning. He looked like he wanted to say something but instead, he just laughed and nodded. “Alright. Sold.”

They jogged toward the fence, rain still hammering down around them. And despite how miserable the weather was, Barty felt… oddly lighter. Like the decision had scratched some invisible itch.

The one to spend more time with Evan.

---

When they arrived—panting, drenched, and dripping water everywhere—Barty made them both kick their shoes off at the door.

“Fuck, I’m freezing,” Evan muttered through chattering teeth as he stepped inside, hugging his arms to his chest.

Barty turned to look at him—and immediately regretted it. There was something about how disheveled Evan looked, damp curls flattened against his forehead, shirt clinging to him, water trailing down his neck. It was messy, unguarded, real in a way Barty wasn’t prepared for. His eyes lingered for a second too long, and he felt it like a red flag being waved in his own face.

He needed to get a grip.

“You can take a shower, if you want,” Barty offered, trying to make it sound like casual politeness. In truth, it was damage control—for his own sanity.

Evan blinked at him. “You sure? Don’t you wanna go first?”

“There are two bathrooms,” Barty said, already heading up the stairs. “I’ll take the one downstairs. You can use mine.”

“You have your own bathroom?” Evan snorted. “Damn. You’re like rich-rich, huh?”

“Just shut up and follow me,” Barty muttered, refusing to acknowledge the way that made something flicker in his chest.

He led him to the room and gestured vaguely at the en suite. “There. Help yourself. That’s my room. I’ll leave some clothes for you on the bed.”

Evan hesitated for a beat, then nodded, soft smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks. Really. I’ll—uh, I’ll get to it, then.”

Barty gave a noncommittal nod and turned away before Evan could say anything else. He laid out a plain t-shirt and gym shorts—something loose enough to fit Evan’s broader frame—then grabbed his own clothes and made a quick exit downstairs.

In the cold spray of his own shower, Barty finally let himself unravel.

Now that the adrenaline was gone, the weight of his decision hit him in full.

What the hell was he doing?

He could still bail, he reasoned. Get Evan dried off, caffeinated, and then send him home with some excuse. No harm done. They didn’t have to make this a thing.

But that would bring him right back to where he started—restless, distracted, chasing shadows of someone he was pretending not to care about. And next time? He’d have to find a new excuse to bump into Evan. He wasn’t sure he had another one in him.

When he finally made his way back upstairs, dressed in worn sweats and a t-shirt, the sight that greeted him stopped him for a second: Evan was in his room, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp, casually flipping through the books on his shelf.

Barty cleared his throat and held out a mug. “Here. I made tea.”

Evan looked up, smiled, and took it without hesitation. “Thanks. For this. And for the clothes, too. They’re nice.”

“Sure,” Barty said, standing awkwardly as Evan sipped.

“S’funny,” Evan murmured, glancing around. “But this is exactly how I pictured it.”

Barty frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It just feels very you. Everything’s neat, lined up just so. Not one thing out of place.” He shrugged. “Lots of books, too. You read all of them?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

‘’Impressive,’’ Evan whistled as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Barty didn’t sit. He stayed by the door, sipping his tea like it might save him from himself.

Evan hadn’t noticed—or maybe he had and just didn’t care—that he was lounging on Barty’s bed like he belonged there. Still damp around the edges, curled slightly over the mug like it warmed more than just his hands.

The silence stretched. Barty hated how heavy it felt. Hated how the walls of his own room suddenly felt too small, like Evan was taking up all the space.

He tried to look anywhere else—his shelves, the old posters still stuck to his closet door, the mug in his hands—but his eyes kept snapping back to him. To Evan. To how comfortable he looked here, to the curve of his neck, to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And the same thought came back. 

Maybe, Barty thought bitterly, maybe if I just gave in—it’d be easier.

Even just once. Just to get it out of his system. Just to do something instead of feeling like this—edgy and restless and half unmade.

He’d been fighting so hard for so long not to want this. And yet here he was, all roads leading back to Evan Rosier, sitting on his bed, wearing his clothes, drinking his tea, like it was nothing.

Barty inhaled sharply through his nose.

It was too quiet. Too still.

And Evan—still not looking at him. Still humming softly into his tea like he couldn’t feel the way Barty was watching him.

That did it.

The mug hit the desk with a soft clunk, and before he could think better of it—before he could tell himself no one more time—he was crossing the room in three strides.

Evan barely had time to blink before Barty was on him—one hand fisting the borrowed t-shirt, the other braced at his jaw as he kissed him.

It lasted barely a second. Just enough to taste him. And then Barty pulled back, clearing his throat.

Evan stared, startled. “What was—”

“You said it was my turn,” Barty blurted. “So there you go.”

’’Uh?’’